At a Time Like This (24 page)

‘I wanted you to know the whole story’ I said. ‘I started trying to have a baby when I was thirty. I knew by then that marriage wasn’t going to happen for me – and
I didn’t want it. If I couldn’t have Paul, then I didn’t want anyone.’

She spoke softly. And you’ve carried that on your own for five years. Why didn’t you say something to one of us, even if not to me? Sorry, that’s a stupid thing to say. But we
might have been able to . . . I don’t know, comfort you.’ Comfort Paul, too. But she didn’t say that.

I smiled. ‘It was easier to pretend. I hadn’t been able to tell you about the abortion at the time, and then, well, months and years went by and it seemed better, easier for everyone
not to. And it’s the same with the infertility treatment. Think how difficult it would have been for all of you. You’d have tried to protect me. You might have felt guilty about your
own children or felt sorry for me. I didn’t want that.’

I could see Maggie thinking. Considering it in the generous, careful way she has always had, trying to match the possible with the actual. ‘What about now?’ she asked eventually.
‘You’re only thirty-five. There must be other doctors, other treatments.’ She did not even mention the cruel irony of her brother’s choice. Her brother with four children
and a Tasmanian wife. Her nieces, her nephews. My loss, my losses. Our pasta remained uneaten. The waiter, deferential, concerned, approached us.

‘Is everything all right,
signore
?’

Maggie looked at him as though she had no idea how he got there. ‘What?’ she said, her face blank.

‘The food,
signora.
Is everything to your liking?’

‘Yes, yes, thank you. Everything is fine.’

He nodded gravely, topped up our wine glasses and left. I could almost see him shaking his head to himself.

‘Oh, I haven’t given up hope,’ I told her. ‘But right now, I’m on a break – if that’s the right term. I haven’t been with anyone since John and I
split up last year. I’m trying to take stock. I don’t know how much more of the hope and despair treadmill I can take.’ I paused. I didn’t want to bring Ray into the
conversation again and I didn’t want to make excuses. ‘The time with Ray was just after the first gynaecologist told me “no more treatments”. To say I was devastated would
be an understatement. That’s the last bit of the jigsaw, Maggie. The bit I didn’t have time to tell you in Georgie’s last week.’

How glib that all sounded. It struck me afterwards that each of Ray’s infidelities must have been like a small death for Maggie, too. I had never found, even for myself, words that would
contain the violence of hope and the bitterness of failure that I had gone through every month for more than five years. Why should Maggie’s pain not be similar to mine? The only difference
was the cause.

I remember about three years ago reading a short story by Guy de Maupassant called ‘Useless Beauty’ and being shocked by the title into recognizing myself. That’s how I felt.
That’s what I was. And to hear others comment on how lovely I looked seemed to me to twist the knife all the more. The gods enjoy these jokes. I’m convinced of it.

Maggie was looking at me as she sipped her wine. Her expression was one I couldn’t read. I thought I saw compassion there, just like the night in Georgie’s, but there was something
else, too. I was not proud of myself or my sometimes tawdry tale. I felt that despite her forgiveness, her understanding both of my abortion and my longing for a baby, something in our friendship
had shifted. After this, it would either be better or worse. But it could never be the same.

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Claire. This is just so difficult. I’m glad that you’ve told me, but sometimes . . .’ She didn’t finish and I didn’t
press her. ‘Let’s talk about it again.’ And she squeezed my hand. ‘But for now, let’s eat. I’m hungry’

She said it with just the ghost of a smile. Maggie’s appetite was legendary. She loved food, loved wine, had no time for stalks of celery or lettuce leaves masquerading as a meal. Oh, she
was disciplined most of the time – otherwise her famous curves might have lost the run of themselves. ‘More gone west than Mae West,’ she used to say. But when food was part of
the celebration, Maggie indulged. Buy now, pay later, she used to say. I loved her appetite for life. It endured, despite all of the reasons that it might not. And so we ate, and tried to talk
about other things. We even delighted the waiter by ordering a tiramisù to share. I think we were astonished that we were able to ride the waves of normality, although we were both conscious
of the undertow.

I wonder if I will ever be able to bring myself to talk about it to the others. Nora would be of the opinion, I am sure, that my barrenness is a judgement from God because of my sexual
immorality. I remember the time, just before she got married, when she accused me of having no respect for myself because I was sleeping with Paul. Her words had stung me. And their shadow haunted
me, later that summer, made me feel like a sinner, made me believe that the abortion was punishment for my wrongdoing. That’s how I felt anyhow. It’s why I cut my hair off again,
although not as dramatically as the first time.

How could I possibly tell someone like Nora, someone so moral and upright, someone whose life has followed a clear, straight ascent, that things are not so tidy for all of us? Abortion and Nora?
Not even in the same sentence.

And Georgie? I don’t think the abortion would faze her, but my longing to be a mother would. I think she’d see it as a reproach to her. It was no secret among us all that Georgie had
never found motherhood easy. I remember how much she had once upset me by referring to her twins, Carla and Lillian, as her ‘mistake’. They were about three at the time. Even more
shocking was her expression as she said it. She meant it.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said. ‘You have no idea what having children can do to your life.’

No, I thought. I don’t. I’d only just started down the long road of trying to find out. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. Not after an admission like the one she’d
just made. And that’s how Georgie has got away with so much, over the years. We don’t challenge her enough.

I feel that in many ways, Nora may be the most honest of all of us. She endures Georgie’s scorn in a way that I’m not able to. Nor is Maggie. There are too many old loyalties there,
too many years between them for Maggie to tell Georgie that there might be some things she doesn’t like about her. But Nora is firm in her views, even firmer in her disapproval of Georgie.
And she’s prepared to show it. I admire her for that. In ways, I wish I was more like her.

Whatever else we say about Nora – and we say a lot – her credentials as a mother are faultless. Maggie and I are both agreed on this. Nora and Frank are capable, devoted, excellent
parents. Watching them makes me feel that the old-fashioned ways
work.
Not a popular view these days, but Frank and Nora’s definition of themselves as traditional, solid, no-nonsense
Father and Mother has produced the most stable family unit I’ve ever known. Frank brought home the bacon and Nora cooked it. That’s how things were, that’s how they were supposed
to be in the self-contained universe of Noras and Franks. We’ve often wondered how ‘a dry old stick’ – Georgie’s term – like Frank managed to father three
handsome, articulate and clever sons. If Nora wished for a daughter, she has never said.

Her sons are her delight, she tells us, ‘my boys’ who make her life worth living. Robbie must be nearly twenty-five now – he was just a new baby the night the four of us made
our pact. Now he’s an architect, all six-foot four of him, with a winning combination of all his mother’s and father’s best features. Some sort of happy genetic accident must have
gone on there. More his father’s physique than his mother’s, he’s slim and dark and gorgeous. Only one of those qualities, it has to be said, was inherited from his father. DNA
randomness has to account for the dark and gorgeous. He does, however, have Nora’s brown eyes and sallow skin.

The second boy, Chris, is at Trinity and he is studying, I believe, to be a social worker.

‘I’m just so proud of him,’ Nora gushed at us when he’d told her of his choice. ‘All my boys are so good, so unselfish.’

I thought Georgie might throw up at that. And on that occasion, okay, I can’t say I blamed her.

Matthew, ‘my baby’ as Nora calls him, to his face and to his obvious embarrassment, is still at secondary school. Once he finishes his Leaving Cert next June, Nora has declared her
job to be done. She’s already talking about going back to work.

‘Back?’ scoffed Georgie. ‘What does she mean, “back”? Madame Stepford has never worked a day in her life.’ I have to admit, I can’t see it either. Frank
is fifty-five now and looking forward to an early retirement. Matthew will be taking over the business. I can see Frank wanting more time with Nora, not less. Anyhow, all of them together, all five
of them as a unit, make me believe in family again.

Maggie has not been so lucky, of course, and continues not to be lucky. I can hardly complain about Ray’s infidelities without seeming hypocritical, but the strain of all those years of
hope and disappointment is definitely showing. She talks to Georgie a lot more than she does to me, for obvious reasons. And that’s fine by me. Her kids are good, though. Eve and Gillian are
both now at UCD and Kevin is the same age as Nora’s Matthew, just about to be unleashed on the world. He’s quiet, from what I can see, and shy. The girls are bundles of energy, just
like Maggie used to be.

And then there’s Georgie’s daughters, Carla and Lillian. Their mother’s ‘mistake’. Lovely girls, I’ve always been very fond of them, but I get the sense that
they gave up on their mother years ago. Pete’s the anchor parent there, no doubt about it. A good man, dependable and caring. Faithful. I have never voiced this, not to anyone, but
Georgie’s marriage surprised me. She dumped Danny the year we left Trinity; now that was a good move. There’s only so much cocaine a body can endure – Danny’s, I mean, not
Georgie’s. He stuffed a fortune up his nostrils, that lad. But they had been together for four years. I think Georgie did love him. Less than a year later, though, she called to tell me that
she and Pete were engaged.

‘I wanted to tell you first, Claire. After all, you were the one who introduced us!’

I was indeed. I remembered the night well. I knew that Georgie was looking to expand her business and I knew that she was hoping Maggie would join her. I had first come across Pete when the
board of
Irish-Style
was hoping to float some new ventures. Pete had done the business and I hosted a small party at home afterwards to celebrate the magazine’s new and improved
financial status.

Naturally, I invited Georgie. I thought that she and Pete might be able to work something out for Georgie’s boutique, ‘Oui Two’. I liked him, and I encouraged his interest in
Georgie. When I say I
liked him,
it was just that. I didn’t find him particularly attractive, but I knew that both he and Georgie were at a loose end, romantically speaking, and
thought they might share a few pleasant dinners. That’s all. I certainly didn’t expect anything more to develop between them. And not at the speed with which it did. When I voiced my
surprise, and I wish I’d been able to hide it better, she was trenchant in her defence of their engagement. This was serious stuff, she kept telling me. Never mind the romance. Even then, her
attitude unnerved me. I thought that, perhaps, the lady doth protest too much.

I often wondered if she had chosen Pete so that she might shine more brightly. Or maybe she was still on the rebound from all that drug-fuelled ecstasy with Danny. Who knows? She never talks
about Pete, and I wonder if things there can be what they seem to be – ordinary and uneventful and lasting.

So there you have it. The Gospel according to Claire. Mind you, I’ve got some things spectacularly wrong in my time, and no doubt I will do so again. No matter what, the four of us women
still get a buzz out of each other’s company, and that can’t be bad after twenty-five years. We’ll all gather again this evening, this time around my table, and we’ll
celebrate a whole quarter-century of friendship. I know that while the routine of the evening might be predictable, it will be neither quiet nor dull. I think I’ll settle for that.

8.
Georgie

So. Two days have now passed since the taxi driver hoped my day wouldn’t be ‘too sad’. Two days since the check-in clerk hoped I’d have ‘a nice
life’ – or at least, that’s what I heard her say.

Last night, I had a call on my mobile – one that broke the rules, but nevertheless. It reassured me, after a fashion. He can be very determined, this lover of mine, very firm in his views.
Yes, there is a problem; yes, there may be a delay. But it changes nothing. Early or late, he will be here. I must be patient. I must wait. There are things, he said, that even I cannot control.
Would I trust him? Yes, after all we have been through, I will trust him. I have no alternative.

And so, after my bath, I slept long and peacefully and awoke feeling refreshed. I spent this morning with Paola, shopping. We filled the large freezer in what used to be the stables. We also
bought things like torches and candles to have to hand for when the power cuts happen, as they will: or so she assures me.

I couldn’t help remembering Maggie’s power cut in her new cottage in Leitrim on the weekend we spent there back in January. I came very close on the Saturday night to telling her how
things in my life were poised for change, but something kept holding me back. Maybe it was that old debt to her that I was still conscious of. I continue to be aware of all that I owe her for her
teenage loyalty, and for so many other times in between. I didn’t want her knowledge of my new life to bring her punishment. And I suspected that it might.

Instead, I marvelled to myself at the similar trajectories of both of our lives – something of which Maggie is still unconscious. But there are some . . . circumstances around that modest
cottage in Leitrim that she has just bought, I am sure of it. They will bear fruit at some stage in the near future. As for me, in my less-than-modest villa, I don’t think that I have left
too much to chance. But time will tell, as Nora used to say – probably still does. Time will tell.