Less Than Perfect (22 page)

‘How's his family?'

‘They're devastated, especially the mother. From what I can tell he was a great kid, good at school and sport, a real allrounder. It's sickening to see this happen to a perfectly healthy boy who had the best part of his life in front of him.'

Before meeting Matthew, I held the vague assumption that police officers, doctors and other people in confronting professions eventually became hardened to tragedy and wasted lives. I now know how wrong and ignorant such an assumption was. Matthew may well have appeared professional and detached while dealing with the boy's family, but tonight, out of uniform and with more time to dwell on the injustice and senselessness of the attack, he's clearly very affected by this case.

I reach for his hand. He interlocks his fingers with mine and takes a long slug of his beer. ‘Enough about me. What did you get up to today?'

‘Errr … I spent a good portion of the day trying to learn how to juggle.'

He grins. ‘Really? What for?'

‘Good question! Apparently, juggling is good for you, and anyone can do it – except me, that is. The instructor had the cheek to insinuate that I'm not open to trying new things. Nicola got it straightaway and thought she was too cool for school. Even Jarrod was better than me! We were meant to be doing a course on business skills and we spent more time on juggling than we did on communication and negotiation. I don't need to be able
to juggle to do my job. It was a ridiculous waste of time and energy.'

‘You've convinced me.' Matthew laughs.

‘I wouldn't mind, but later on, when the course was over and we were back at work, they were all still at it. Every time I looked up there were bean bags flying in the air. It was so annoying!'

I'm smiling, rather enjoying exaggerating how annoying it was, and Matthew laughs again. An easy silence falls as we finish eating. Then Matthew clears the table.

When he returns from the kitchen, he sits and takes my hand again, his thumb drawing circles on the soft skin of my inner wrist while he uses his other hand to lift his beer to his lips. Suddenly I can't focus on anything else but that very slight movement of his thumb, and a shiver of excitement runs down my back.

‘Are you cold?' he asks.

‘No.' My voice is whispery.

He puts down his beer bottle and I know that he's going to kiss me. I've been waiting for this moment all evening, wondering if it'll be as good as the last time. It is. Better, even. His lips are less tentative, more confident, as are his hands, which slide across my shoulders to hold me tightly against him. I love the wave effect he creates with his lips – soft, firm, soft again – and the way his hands are now entangled in my hair, pressing me deeper and deeper into the kiss until I lose all sense of time and place.

Afterwards, when I've been once again thoroughly kissed by Matthew Blake, he nuzzles my face, his eyes dark in the shadows and showing no hint of their usual brilliant blue. ‘What are you doing over Easter?' he enquires unexpectedly.

I attempt to straighten my hair, clothes and thoughts all at the same time. ‘Easter?'

‘Easter – you know, Stations of the Cross, egg hunts, bunny ears, coming to town this very weekend …'

‘Ah, that Easter! I've nothing definite planned yet.'

Nicola is going away with David, a promising step forward in their relationship, and Jeanie's going to Sydney again to visit her indomitable family. Her regular family get-togethers never pass off without at least one row and she's already speculating which sister will start the argument.

‘I'm having lunch on Sunday with Sophie and Ben.' His breath is warm against my face. It makes me want to kiss him again. ‘Normally we'd go back to the farm at Easter but I'm working on the weekend and Sophie doesn't want to go home without me. Anyway, this lunch is pretty casual – I'll just be throwing a few snags on the barbecue – and you're very welcome to join us.'

‘I don't know.' I'm aware that I sound every bit as reluctant as I feel. I'm still only getting used to the idea of this relationship and it doesn't feel right to draw other people into it just yet. Neither Jeanie nor Nicola knows that Matthew exists; meeting his sister would, in the spirit of fairness, necessitate telling my own friends and family and I'm not ready for that.

‘Just say no if you're not into it.' Matthew shrugs, sitting back in his seat and picking up his almost-empty beer bottle. ‘I know it's early to meet my family – I just thought I'd mention it in case you didn't have anything to do.'

He sounds quite relaxed about it, as if it's no big deal, and so it's easy to be honest with him. ‘Actually, it does feel kind of early. Maybe we could meet for a drink afterwards instead?'

‘Sure.'

Matthew finishes his beer; I've lost interest in mine. After a short, charged silence, it feels perfectly natural to start kissing again. Finding it imperative to get closer to him, I move from my seat to his lap and loop my arms around his neck. I can feel a heightened urgency in his mouth, and I respond accordingly, kissing him rather wildly. Lust washes through my body and I know that my resolve not to rush things is about to be tested. His mouth strays to the curve of my neck, hot against my cool-by-comparison skin, and I tremble in response. It lowers further, to the line of my top. Just as I'm trying to summon the will to stop him, he restlessly moves it again, to my hands, kissing each finger, chaste and yet somehow erotic. But then, suddenly, he stops.

‘Did you cut yourself?' he asks, examining the small scabs on the tips of my fingers.

I pull away from his scrutiny. ‘I just pricked my hand …'

‘On what?'

‘Can't remember,' I lie.

‘Did it hurt?'

‘No.'

Not ready for this conversation and where it will lead, I direct his mouth back to mine and kiss any further questions away. Some indefinable length of time later we're interrupted by the slam of the screen door and a booming voice. We jump back from each other, as guilty as teenagers caught in the act by parents arriving home unexpectedly; grinning sheepishly, Matthew introduces me to Pete, one of his colleagues and housemates. Unperturbed, Pete sits down and joins us, Matthew procures
another round of beers from the fridge, and the three of us talk until I look at my watch and realise how late it is.

‘I'll call you a taxi,' Matthew offers. ‘Or I can see if we have a car nearby …'

‘A taxi will do fine, thanks,' I assure him primly. One ride home in a police car is more than enough to be going with!

Ten minutes later, I'm once again kissing Matthew, this time outside the front of the cottage. ‘Now that I know where you live I can cycle here,' I murmur.

‘I like that idea.' He puts on an official voice. ‘Make sure you wear a helmet, madam, and cycle responsibly!'

‘Of course, officer.'

Matthew kisses me one last time. ‘I'll see you on Sunday.'

‘See you then.'

‘Phone me if you change your mind about lunch. I know you'll like Sophie and she'll like you.' He opens the back door of the taxi and I get inside.

‘Okay,' I say, but I know that I won't change my mind.

On Thursday, just in time for Easter, Jarrod announces that Telelink have signed on the dotted line. He delivers the news in a specially convened sales meeting. The rollout will start a month later than planned, commencing in June rather than May, and will run for eight weeks. Jarrod's very pleased, so pleased that he comes dangerously close to smiling. He hardly looks at me, let alone acknowledges my part in the deal, and I sit through the meeting feeling jealous, indignant and completely invisible.

‘You should have heard him,' I say crossly to Jeanie later that night. ‘You would swear he had done it all himself.'

‘Well, he was the one who managed to get Derek to sign in the end, wasn't he?'

‘But I did all the legwork …'

‘Including nearly killing Derek and yourself!'

‘That was as much Derek's fault as it was mine,' I retort.

Jeanie isn't interested in discussing it further; she's too busy entering contact details into her new phone. ‘What's your work number again?' she asks, her forehead creased in concentration.

Obligingly, I reel it off. She then asks for the number of a mutual friend.

‘Thanks.' She sighs, her shiny new phone held in both hands as she looks across at me. ‘To be honest, I think I'd rather stay here this Easter than going all the way up to Sydney.'

‘You don't mean that.'

‘I do. I saw them all last week and it feels far too soon to see them again. I've been away a lot recently, I'm tired, and spending four consecutive days with my dearest sisters isn't exactly relaxing.'

‘Your sisters are fabulous!'

‘Fabulous in small doses. Plus, Mum will see that I'm in a mood and she'll give me a hard time. She always says there's no room for moods in our house – it's too packed as it is.'

I chuckle, always enjoying Jeanie's stories about her family: the quick, fierce arguments, the unpredictability of all those personalities thrown in together, the guaranteed laughter at the end of the day, so unlike my own ordered and painfully measured upbringing.

‘It's not funny,' Jeanie says tersely. ‘Honestly, if my airfare wasn't non-refundable, I'd cancel.'

‘It'll be fine,' I assure her. ‘You'll be glad that you went in the end. Your family is wonderful.'

Jeanie shoots me a dark look. ‘Why do you always think my family is so great? It isn't, you know.'

I shrug. ‘At least your parents allowed you all to develop your own character.' I hear the bitterness in my voice, but I can't manage to temper it. ‘At least they weren't always trying to mould you into their ideal of a perfect child.'

‘Trust me, my sisters could have done with some moulding!' she retorts. ‘They ran wild – Mum didn't know where they were half the time.'

I don't say anything further. Jeanie is too grumpy to reason with tonight. Instead I scroll down through the contacts in my phone, and helpfully call out some more numbers that she might need.

I'm awake well before my mother's call on Saturday morning. The flat is totally silent, as is the street outside. I only ever notice the silence when Jeanie's away, and I know it wouldn't seem so quiet if she was sound asleep in the room next door. Yesterday was deathly quiet too, all the shops, restaurants and bars closed, and nothing to do other than take a bike ride along the largely deserted cycle paths and roads and then come home to finish the book I was reading. I don't like Good Friday. In fact, I'm not that keen on Easter as a whole. It brings back too many memories: the sombre religious services in the parish church we attended as a family; cracking open my egg after mass on Easter Sunday, gorging myself on chocolate but still trying not to eat any faster than Liam or Maeve; the Easter I spent with Josh, holding his hand as we voted for the peace agreement, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

I pounce on the phone when it rings and the sound of my mother's voice immediately eases the loneliness I've been feeling since the start of the long weekend.

‘Hi, Mum.'

‘Hello, love. You sound bright and chirpy.'

It's troubling how easily I can fool my mother over the phone. ‘I woke early.'

‘Are you off somewhere for the day?'

‘Nowhere in particular.'

‘You're not on your own for Easter, are you?' Mum sounds worried now.

‘No. Nicola's around. I'll see her.' It's easier to lie than to have her worry about me being alone at such a family-focused time of year. ‘Is Maeve home for the weekend?'

‘Yes, she is. Well, she dropped her bags here at least – she's been off visiting her friends since. I'm waiting for my turn!'

‘Did Dad talk to her about getting a job?'

‘They've discussed it. From what I understand, she wasn't overly receptive but he's going to let her think about what he said before he mentions it again.'

There's a small silence in which I imagine Maeve having a heart to heart with my father in his office, or maybe in the university canteen, sitting among the overcrowded tables and drinking milky cups of tea. The image makes me feel uncomfortable on a number of levels.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you!' Mum exclaims suddenly. ‘You won't believe who I bumped into. I was in town, you know I don't go in there very often, but I had a few things to get at the supermarket and I met an old friend of yours …'

‘Who?'

‘Mandy. She lives in the south now, in Dundalk, but she's home for Easter.'

I feel an instant pang of guilt. ‘How is she?'

‘She looks great, hardly a day older than when I last saw her. She has two children, one about six months old – he was asleep in the buggy, a bonnie-looking child. The other one, another boy, was hiding behind her leg, obviously a different personality to his mother. Mandy was never shy!'

I'd heard that Mandy got married, not to Brendan, her old boyfriend, but to someone else. It's weird to think of her as a married woman, even weirder that I wasn't at her wedding and haven't even met her husband. The fact that she has children and is a mother seems stranger still.

‘She gave me her email address and her phone number,' Mum goes on chattily. ‘She said she would love it if you got in touch.'

I'm assailed with a sharper, fiercer pang of guilt. During my first year in Australia, Mandy wrote copious letters but my responses were half-hearted. As a result the letters, and the friendship, fizzled out and I've always felt sorry that I didn't do more to keep it alive. The problem was that thinking of Mandy brought back a rush of memories and I couldn't bear to be reminded of all the times we'd ‘borrowed' her sister's clothes and makeup without her permission, the nights out with Brendan and Josh in Belfast and how well the four of us had got on together, and seeing my own grief and shock reflected on Mandy's face that awful day at the sports complex. I still think of Mandy quite often. Maybe I have no right to, but I still consider her my friend.