At a Time Like This (22 page)

‘Why not?’ Georgie had said. ‘The three of us will never have such a captive audience again. And the aisle is every bit as good as the catwalk.’

Pete was solid and calm and tolerant on the day.

‘This is Georgie’s wedding,’ he said to me with a smile, just a few days beforehand. ‘I’m only here to get married.’

Georgie and Maggie had dressed him, too. Not to kill, but rather to highlight the bride. He was content with that and played his role of consort to the hilt. On a couple of occasions when
Georgie seemed not to be getting her own way in the runup to the big day, she snapped at him in my presence. Each time, he’d grin at me and say: ‘Tell Her Majesty that I defer to her
wishes.’ Even then, I wondered at the wisdom of that. Too much deference cannot be good for a woman like Georgie.

Pete could work a room, though, every bit as well as Georgie could. I still believe that that wedding poured the foundations for the success that both of them began to enjoy just as soon as they
were married. It seemed to me like an old-fashioned joining of empires, like the historical ones we used to read about in college. Georgie and Pete complemented each other. They were both talented,
hard-working people, there is no doubt about that. But hey, the contacts help.

By the time Maggie and Ray’s wedding day came along, only six months later, they were very much the also-rans. Don’t get me wrong. The wedding was stylish because Maggie would have
nothing less, and Georgie would have nothing less either, on her friend’s behalf. But I felt that there was something tired about it. She, Maggie, that is, had wanted something small and
intimate, a low-key affair, different in every way from Georgie’s. I thought she had made a wise choice. There was no way she could ever hope to scale the heights that Georgie did. She simply
didn’t have the contacts. But its low-keyness spoke to me of something other than that. It was as though Maggie’s heart wasn’t in it. Although I tried to stay as neutral as I
could during the months leading up to her big day, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Her wedding had all the signs – subtle ones, but signs nonetheless, for those prepared to read them
– of something she had got herself into and now she had to see it through.

I have often wondered, though, if that view is just something I have conveniently developed in retrospect. Something that might have more to do with guilt on my part, much more than I care to
believe. The reasoning might go something like this: if they were such an ill-matched, ill-starred couple to begin with, then perhaps my own crime of betrayal mightn’t be such an unforgivable
one, after all. But it doesn’t work for me. I can’t let myself off the hook like that.

Georgie was to be Maggie’s matron of honour – a term both of them hated with a passion. However, six weeks before the wedding, Georgie discovered that she was pregnant. She was
livid. She was also, to use Maggie’s phrase, as sick as a parrot, and there was absolutely no way that she was up to the duties of maid, matron, whatever she wanted to call it. Maggie was her
usual, upfront, no-nonsense self when she arranged to meet me for coffee.

‘You know that Georgie and I have been friends since we were kids,’ she said, spooning the froth off her cappuccino into her mouth. I often wondered how she managed to eat and drink
with such gusto as she did, and still keep the scarlet gloss of her lips looking perfect. I wear lipstick only rarely, and when I do, I seem to manage to eat it away almost instantly.

‘We’ve promised each other ever since we were fourteen that we’d be each other’s bridesmaids.’ Maggie paused and I remembered how well she’d fulfilled that
role at Georgie’s own wedding. Georgie, the sisterless sophisticate. Maggie was wonderful on that day. She was playful, unobtrusive and managed to be everywhere she was needed – by
Georgie’s side, or playing with the little flower-girls, or helping the photographer capture the eager guests. It had felt to me as though there were two of her.

‘Well, Georgie can’t keep that promise now, even though she’d love to. It’s driving her nuts that she can’t.’ She looked straight at me. Even then, I
didn’t know what was coming. ‘And if she can’t, the one person I’d love to have as my bridesmaid is you.’

I looked at her stupidly. ‘Me?’ Memories of Paul flooded, of that awful summer, of all the things that Maggie didn’t know and might never know, unless I had the courage some
day to tell her.

‘Yeah,’ she said, grinning at my surprise. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke over her shoulder, away from me. ‘You. Who else?’ She made it sound like the most
natural thing in the world. My eyes filled. I wanted to ask her, but she got there before me.

‘Paul is still in Australia. He’s not going to be able to make it home. Ray and I are going out to see them – we’re meeting up in Singapore. If I thought he’d be
here, I wouldn’t ask you. It wouldn’t be fair.’

Dear Maggie. I wanted to lean forwards and hug her. She had such a knack of getting things out in the open, of being natural and easy with others around her. Instead of hugging her, though, I
squeezed her hand. I see now that it was a gesture that was eerily prophetic of Georgie’s living room, years into the future. But by then, so many things had been destroyed or damaged beyond
repair. On this day, though, they were all still intact, all full of hope and promise and the certainties of friendships built to last. ‘I’d love to be your bridesmaid,’ I said,
finally. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

And she grinned, raising both of her thumbs in jubilation. She and I worked well together, too, during those last, hectic six weeks. I was anxious to do everything right and she was just as
anxious to show me that I was not second-best and so we had a winning combination. On the day, Ray’s behaviour was impeccable. He was handsome, courteous to all the guests and very attentive
to Maggie. In fact, he had eyes only for her. She basked like a girl in his smiles and I was glad. Glad and relieved. I remember thinking even then, as I stood beside them at the altar, that maybe
they had a chance, never mind Lorraine, never mind all the times he had strayed as a single man in the past. Maybe all of that would now be over, once he tied the knot.

I couldn’t help remembering, though, the day he’d gone missing at Nora’s wedding. That was the day he’d pulled the bridesmaid, no less, who happened to be the
bride’s sister. I wanted Maggie’s love, loyalty and both her and Ray’s hopes for a future together to win the day for both of them. I will always regret the part I may have played
in any of the disillusionment that came next. But there is nothing that can be done now, at least not about that.

We saw Maggie and Ray off in a hail of confetti and rice. The taxi waited to bring them to Dublin airport and then to Australia for six weeks. To Australia and to Paul. He came back to Dublin
only the once, for their father’s funeral. I hadn’t the courage to meet him so I invented a business trip to Dijon and fled. Maggie did not press me to stay. Her leaving now for
Australia was not a happy moment. Too many memories collided. I counted the minutes until I could leave the hotel with decency.

I remember that as we all stood and waved outside the front door of the hotel, Georgie puked into a plastic bag she’d kept beside her – discreetly of course – all through the
reception. I was grateful for the distraction. Pete was beaming, full of tenderness and delight at the thought of being a dad. He could talk about nothing else that day. But I could sense
Georgie’s rage. This was an occasion when she must have wanted to share centre stage, she and her oldest friend. Instead, here she was, hawking ignominiously into a sick sack. I have to
confess that something about that amused me, despite my heartache. I got a sense of satisfaction that had its origins in that famous night some seven years previously. I remembered lurching home on
my own and throwing up on the grass in Rathfarnham the time when she and Maggie – but particularly she – had been so knowing and all grown up, the night when the three of us had met in
O’Neill’s as brand-new students.

From where I stood, it was good to see Georgie, for the first time ever, no longer in control. For maybe the only time in her life, there were forces outside her influence that made her
incapable of making anything different from what it already was. She just had to accept that this was how it was going to be and get on with it.

‘This is shit, Claire, really shit,’ she said, wiping away the tears that had escaped as she threw up. ‘Look at me. How is it possible to feel so bad?’ She was gripped by
another wave of nausea. Her eyes looked navy, her face white and strained. She retched into the basin before her.

I tried to soothe her. I sat with her on a low upholstered stool in the ladies’ room while other guests came in and out and looked over at us, full of curiosity. Maggie and Ray had left
maybe twenty minutes earlier, and what Georgie had held together till then, she now let fall apart with no apology. I admired her and felt sorry for her on that night. One of the things I have
always liked about Georgie is her protectiveness, her ability to look after Maggie and her willingness to do so. I’ve always been drawn to loyalty.

‘I worry about her, Claire, I really do,’ she said now. She dry-heaved once again, and I handed her a tissue. ‘I don’t trust Ray. He’s not good for her. I’m
afraid that it’s all going to come unstuck.’

After that, she wasn’t able to say anything more. I left her and went off to go and buy her a bottle of water at the bar. Pete was hovering outside and had been for some time. He and I
agreed that it was time for Georgie to go home, to go to bed and go to sleep. I bought the water and went back to the Ladies to help her to the car. But by then she was already asleep, resting on
her forearms, the top of her head reflected in the large mirrors above the basins. I didn’t want to disturb her, but I knew that I had to. As I touched her on the shoulder, she jerked awake.
In that instant, the one that exists between sleep and waking, I saw her face register confusion, uncertainty and pain.

I remember it as the only time I have ever known Georgie to display vulnerability.

I also treasure it as the one constant reminder I have of her selflessness in friendship.

Remembering Maggie’s wedding makes me recall that other occasion, after my fiasco with Ray, when Maggie and I met on our own to talk. It was late one evening in March, a
few weeks after Georgie had managed to get the two of us together in her living room. We were very careful about choosing where we should go. Maggie’s house was impossible and I know that we
both felt mine was tainted after what had happened there between Ray and me. And so Maggie chose Nico’s, an old-fashioned Italian restaurant in the city centre. It was a comforting place. I
had always thought of it as a bit shabby, but it had earned its reputation for good food and good wine several years back and had no need to impress anybody. I think we both liked the fact that it
wasn’t pretending to be anything it was not. Maggie and I still felt awkward in each other’s presence – how could we not? – but we were both working hard at making that
disappear.

I remember thinking on that evening that we were living one of those strange coincidences that Maggie can have known nothing about. Two years and four months had passed since my non-affair with
Ray; fifteen years and four months had passed since my last painful conversation with Paul. They were both dates I would never forget.

He and I had met in the Gresham Hotel, where we were unlikely to run into anyone we knew. It was maybe a year after Nora’s wedding, but I hadn’t even begun to get over him. Maggie
intervened for me. She begged him to meet me, just to talk. And Paul agreed to meet. He arrived shortly after I did and he was dressed in a suit and tie. I found that strange at the time. The
minute I saw him, I was reminded of all the formality of a funeral and my chest tightened. I recall very little else. I’m sure our meeting went on for longer than I can remember, but most of
it is a white-out.

He was pale as he came up to me and took my hand. He leaned towards me and kissed my cheek.

I squeezed his hand but there was no answering pressure. My courage failed me. I had hoped, of course I had, but something in me had known that this was how it was going to be. I slumped on to
the sofa beside him. I had to force myself not to put my arms around him, not to pull his dark head towards me and hold him close the way I had done for so long.

I have often thought since that day that I should have fought harder for us. I have felt that maybe I was too docile, too accepting of his certainty that things were over between us. But how can
you force someone to love you? How can you force them to feel something that they say they can no longer feel?

And how can you stop being to blame for something for which you are the only one to blame?

‘I’ve tried, Claire, but I just can’t put it behind me.’ Paul spoke so quietly I could hardly hear him. ‘It goes to the core of everything I believe a relationship
should be. It’s not only the baby that died. It’s our trust.’

I remember how I winced at the word ‘baby’, and how much more I wince at it now. And of course I heard ‘the baby that
you killed
’. A six-week pregnancy? Was there
no room at all for a little more forgiveness?

I sat there numbly, not being able to speak.

Eventually, I summoned up the courage. I had nothing left to lose.

‘I’ll do anything, Paul, anything at all. Any penance you want. I love you. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose
us.’

At that, he stood up abruptly. I could see that he was choked, that his eyes were wet.

‘It’s too late, Claire. I’m sorry – sorrier than you will ever know. You’ve already lost me. We’ve lost each other. I have to go.’

And that was that. I didn’t blame him. I had done all that he said, and more. I sat for a while longer in the hotel lobby, watching happy couples come and go. Watching mothers and happy
toddlers. As you do, as you can’t help doing in these circumstances. I know that I sat for a long time wondering if there was any easy way to kill myself. Like Hamlet, I wanted my ‘too,
too solid flesh to melt’. But unfortunately, it wouldn’t. It stayed stubborn and real and all too frozen. I made my way home to the flat, drank a full bottle of white wine and woke,
shivering, to a filthy hangover that at least gave me some other focus for my pain.