At a Time Like This (34 page)

He leaned towards me. I could feel his closeness, feel the warmth of his breath, that tingling note of his aftershave again. ‘Before you say anything, listen to me. I’ve grown up all
my life knowing what love is. My father told me he fell in love with my mother the first minute she walked into his shop. He told me that if I was ever lucky enough to have that, no matter what the
circumstances, I should never ignore it.’

I swallowed. Frank. Nora. All my derision, all my impatience, my cynicism over the years. Hoist with my own petard? I should think so.

‘Robbie,’ I said, my words slow and deliberate, ‘my two daughters are only a few years younger than you are. You are a boy. There is nothing possible between us. This is a
crush, infatuation – call it what you like. It isn’t
real’

He grinned. ‘And tell me, what were you up to at twenty-one? Were you a mere girl, an innocent?’

‘Yes,’ I said, firmly. ‘That’s exactly what I was. A girl. An ingénue.’ An image of Danny loomed before me again. I could almost taste the intensity of his
physical presence. I drove him away, back to whatever shadows he had emerged from.

Robbie’s brown eyes were steady. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. His voice was calm. And I understand why. And if you are so sure that I’m only a foolish boy, then why are
you so terrified?’

Then I stood, with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘I am not terrified, I am simply taken aback. This is ludicrous. I’m leaving now. Please don’t call me again.’

And I left the café, hoping against hope that there would be a taxi to take me home. There was – and I fell into it and shut the door, just in time to see Robbie run out into the
street after me, the glass doors of the café swinging to a close behind him. But of course, he did call again. And again and again over the course of the next few days. As soon as I’d
recognize the number, I’d switch my mobile off. He never left a message. Once, when I was having a coffee with Claire, I was taken unawares and answered without thinking. On that occasion, I
was sharp to the point of rudeness.

‘I want you to stop harassing me,’ I said. ‘Next time, I’ll report you as a nuisance caller.’

‘Then meet me,’ he said. ‘Just once more. Six o’clock tonight. Same café in Donnybrook. After that, if you still want me to, I’ll leave you alone.’

If you still want me to.
The arrogance of the young. Claire was looking at me, her expression one of concern. I did not want to have to explain anything to her. I hung up without
responding.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asked.

I shook my head impatiently. ‘It’s only a nuisance call. I’ve had two or three of them recently. It’s nothing.’

‘It doesn’t look like “nothing” to me. You’ve gone as white as a ghost.’

I tried to smile at her. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit of an irritation, that’s all. And I really don’t want to have to change my number
– it’s far too much of an inconvenience. They’ll get fed up eventually and leave me alone.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘whatever you do, don’t let it drag on too long.’

As soon as she spoke, I felt the rightness of her words. This had to be dealt with now. This boy had to be sent away. When Claire went up to pay for our coffee, I sent him a one-word text:
‘Yes.’

I would meet him that evening and then that would be the end of that.

I arrived at the café at ten-past six. I gave Maggie one excuse as I left the shop and gave Pete a different one by phone. But Maggie has never needed explanations from
me and as I’ve said, my husband is not a suspicious man. I didn’t feel guilty about my white lies, either, because I had no intention of doing anything about which to feel guilty,
either then or later. Instead, I was angry. I wanted this to
stop.
And yet, Robbie’s pursuit of me was flattering, at times even thrilling. There were days when the edginess of
anticipating his calls and texts made me feel alive, vibrant, almost-three dimensional in a way I hadn’t felt for a long time – not since Danny. Or Luis.

He was there before me, as I’d known he would be. I sat down opposite him. He met my gaze, no sign of embarrassment or uncertainty in his expression. I was nonplussed. It felt as though I
were the twenty-one-year-old girl, and he the older, more experienced man. It seemed that neither of us wanted to be the first to speak. Eventually, I was the one who broke the silence. I kept my
voice low and controlled. No histrionics, I’d promised myself – not that histrionics have ever been my style, anyway.

‘Robbie,’ I said. ‘Please stop contacting me. You’re wasting your time and mine and making me feel uncomfortable.’ At least that last was true.

‘I want you to open this,’ he said, as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘I want you to keep it, no matter what you decide. If you don’t take it, then I’ll leave it
here on the table when we go.’ His tone was quiet, insistent. I believed that he meant what he said. I had to humour him. At least, that’s what I think I thought at the time. The truth
is, the moment I stretched out my hand for that gift I knew. There was no going back. Inside the box was a white gold Tiffany heart, studded with tiny diamonds. I froze.

‘You told me to get something beautiful and impractical,’ he said.

‘ For yourself.’

He leaned forwards and took the necklace from me. ‘I did.’ He moved with speed and fastened it about my throat. As he did so, he leaned down and kissed the back of my neck. Lightning
struck. I didn’t trust myself to move or speak. Instead, I remember looking around the dimly lit interior of the café, searching for somewhere safe to stand. And I remember thinking:
lightning never strikes the same place twice. I repeated it to myself, over and over again, like a mantra.

‘I did buy something for myself. I wanted to see you wear it.’ His voice was quiet. He sat down and leaned across the tiny table. I thought I could smell the sun on his skin again,
the way I had the day we’d met in Grafton Street. But that was ridiculous. It was evening and we were indoors.

He took my hands in both of his. The pressure of his fingers reminded me all over again of how his hand had felt through the thin fabric of my dress. ‘I don’t know how, not yet, but
I will.’ His gaze was warm, confident. I sat looking at him, more and more immobilized as he stroked my fingers, kissed them one by one. ‘It will probably have to be in some highly
unconventional way. But you and I are going to be together. I’m sure of it.’

Even now, even as I write this, I can hear sensible people groan. Quite right, too, but I was no longer sensible, no longer sane. The only thing I was conscious of right then was the depth of my
own madness. Because the words Robbie spoke had struck at something within me that responded, without my wanting it to. It was as if all the conflicting elements of my life had finally become
fused. I could feel those disparate parts of me, the acknowledged and the unacknowledged, some present, some missing for years, all rushing towards this new centre like iron filings to a magnet. My
thoughts became random, almost wild – but at the same time, I felt a stillness, a serenity, a sense of the rightness of things that I had never felt before.

My kingdom for a kiss? My life for a cliché? Was I about to abandon husband, family, friends, business, to become a woman seeking to relive her life in the arms of a man half her age?

‘Together? How can you say that?’ I tried to pull my hands away. Even to my own ears, my voice lacked the strength of conviction.

He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Because I know it’s true. And you know it’s true. You knew it on the night of my birthday. We both did. That’s why
you ran, why you wouldn’t look at me after the photograph.’ He reached into the pocket of his shirt. ‘Look.’

I looked. Claire, Nora, Robbie, me, Maggie. The photo had captured an instant I no longer remembered, illuminated a feeling I’d refused to recognize, then or later. I was caught in the act
of trying to pull away from him, trying to pull back. I look stricken, unsmiling.

‘See what I mean?’

‘It’s a photograph. It proves nothing . . . I often feel uncomfortable in your mother’s presence.’

He grinned and tucked the photograph back into his pocket. ‘Well, now at least you have good reason.’

I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I’d be sensible. Tomorrow, I’d deal with it.

For three weeks after that meeting in an ordinary café on an unremarkable June evening, I tried to resist. Despite what I was feeling, despite the discovery that I was
becoming a whole new person, I resisted. I fought him daily with duty and with logic. We had twenty-one more days of phone calls, texts, even letters posted to the shop. If Maggie noticed, she
never said. In all of these communications, Robbie was very measured and there was no sense of panic. He was simply persistent in the face of what he called the inevitable. Finally, I agreed to
meet him somewhere private, so that we could talk. The novelty was thrilling.

We met in the flat of a friend of his. A small, clean and orderly flat above a motorcycle shop in Castleknock. It was the first of many such meetings. I was nervous, but exhilarated too. I
remember I’d dressed with care and to make a point: a white linen suit, elegant, sophisticated, something that I hoped would emphasize the differences between us, make Robbie realize that I
was no longer a girl. Make
me
realize that I was no longer a girl. That first day, though, one bit of me thought, why the hell not? I could use some excitement in my life, and
Robbie’ll get over it soon enough. I have to confess that I took even greater care with what I wore underneath my white linen suit. And that made an altogether different point. I’d
splurged on silk, on lace, in shades and styles that were way more daring than anything I was used to. So yes, I knew.

He had arrived at the flat well before me, by arrangement. When he opened the door, he swung me off my feet, kissed me and handed me a glass of champagne. I was so taken aback at the
businesslike way he did it, that I was speechless. It was as though to say, ‘There, let’s get that bit out of the way’ And it worked – instead of feeling awkward, we both
laughed. He pulled out a kitchen chair for me.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked. The kitchen was full of bowls, dishes, platters, all filled with bite-size portions of brightly coloured food. An ice bucket stood at one
corner of the tiny table, beautifully folded napkins at the other. In between were wine glasses – none of which matched, each of which dazzled in the sunlight from the open window.

This is not real, I had to tell myself. But it was. It was authentic in a way so few things had been for so long. He caught me looking at the glasses.

‘Victorian crystal,’ he said, pulling something out of the fridge. ‘One of my mate’s – Hugh’s – passions. He’s been collecting it for three years
now. Says it’s amazing the bargains you can pick up at junk sales and auction rooms.’

I nodded. What possible answer could there be to that? I felt more and more like Alice in Wonderland. This rabbit-hole was filled with young men, antique crystal and motorcycle repairs. As if I
didn’t have enough to grapple with already.

‘I’m in my Greek phase at the moment,’ he continued. His voice was cheerful, relaxed. I wondered how he could be so completely himself, so much without jagged edges. ‘I
like to cook,’ he said. Then he glanced at me. ‘Didn’t lick it up off the stones, wouldn’t you say?’

I couldn’t answer. At the oblique reference to Nora, to my other life, I felt all at once filled with the panic of uncertainty. The loss of everything I had built loomed in front of my
eyes, filling this small and spartan kitchen. What was I doing here? I wanted to flee, needed to clamber out of this tunnel before I did something that would make my old life disappear from view
for ever. I tried to stand, but only succeeded in scraping the chair legs across the wooden floor.

Are you okay?’ he asked. The tenderness in his voice brought a lump to my throat.

To my horror, I could feel my eyes begin to fill. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t think I’m okay at all.’

He wiped his hands very matter-of-factly and walked around to my side of the table. Without a word, he pulled me to my feet and put his arms around me. I could feel myself beginning to get drunk
on the scents I already associated with him – sun, skin, maleness. We stood for what seemed like a lifetime, holding on to each other. My head rested comfortably against his chest. I was
terrified that it felt so good there. The pressure I recalled from his embrace on the night of his birthday now became transformed into solidity. Gradually, I felt myself being grounded by it. That
surprised me most of all. I had not expected him to sustain me.

He stroked my hair. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know how strange this has to be for you. I’m sorry the way I sprang it on you – but I’m not sorry you’re here.
I’m in love with you, Georgie, and you’re going to have to deal with that.’ He kissed me. ‘Because I’m not going to let you go.’

He pulled away and looked at me, his gaze unwavering. And then I kissed him back.

We’ve spoken many times since about that afternoon. About how in the end we each took the other to bed, about how we made love for hours until we were both exhausted, but still
couldn’t leave the other alone. Three times I got dressed to go home, promising that yes, yes, we would meet again, of course we would meet again. How could we not?

And each time, he undressed me once more, luring me back to bed. It was an irresistible combination of his hands on my skin, his words in my ear, the warmth of his laughter. Sometimes he teases
me still, telling me what a pushover I was. All he had to do was cook
one meal,
he said, and he had me hooked. He made me laugh then, and he makes me laugh still. Somehow, the world became a
lighter, kinder place that afternoon. And the strangest thing of all is, that instead of the strangeness I had feared, there was nothing but familiarity between us. Lying there in bed together, I
felt as if I had come home, as if I had just woken from a long and dreamless sleep.