Semi-Sweet (35 page)

She looked up, the tiniest of smiles flashing across her features. “He can play the guitar, too. And the flute.”

“Right,” he said. “So you’re a musical family.”

A short nod as she pulled a sheet from the bundle and placed it on the stand. Beethoven, Adam read. Bit of a step up from
“Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Hannah would be impressed.

“What’s the name of the band?” Another question he knew the answer to.

“Small Change.”

“And how long—”

“We’ll try Beethoven next, a lullaby,” she said. “When you’ve finished.”

Adam downed the rest of his milk and returned the glass to the tray. “What’s your brother’s name?”

Vivienne shifted on her bench, her smile gone. For a second, Adam thought she wasn’t going to reply, and then she said, “Walter.
Wally.”

“And he’s a full-time musician?” Aware that he was pushing but reluctant to return to the formality of the lesson just yet.

“No—he drives a taxi.” She looked pointedly at his clarinet, lying on the floor by his chair, and Adam picked it up. “Beethoven,”
she said again, turning toward the stand, and Adam put the mouthpiece to his lips and awaited further instruction.

And then she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the sheet music, “You’re improving a bit.” The familiar flush reappearing, drifting
slowly up her cheeks. “With the clarinet.”

It wasn’t much. It was hardly anything. She probably said that to all her pupils to keep them trying. Silly, really, the effect
it had on him.

When the woman came out of the house, Alice nearly missed her, scraping with her nail at a stain on her skirt. As she raised
her head, a movement caught her eye on the other side of the road. The woman walked rapidly, head lowered, shoulders hunched,
hands thrust into the pockets of a green jacket.

Alice grabbed her bag and got out, no thought in her head but to follow. She locked the car and walked after the woman, suddenly
aware of her quickening heartbeat, her dry mouth, her grotesquely loud footsteps on the quiet afternoon street.

After crossing a number of intersections and turning a few corners, they came to a bus stop. The woman stood next to the pole,
ignoring the shelter. An elderly man sat on the wooden bench inside, his hands wrapped around the knobby handle of a wooden
stick.

Alice approached, slowing her pace. No plan, no clue what to do.

She stopped a foot or so from the woman and rummaged in her bag. She never traveled by bus, had no idea how much it cost.
She emptied coins from her purse into her palm—roughly two euro. Surely that would be enough.

She closed her bag and hung it on her shoulder, then turned her head slowly toward the mother, who was staring fixedly at
the ground. She looked tightly clenched, standing there. Alice could see the shape her fist made in the near-side pocket.
The thin strap of a small brown bag lay across her body. Her blond hair was pulled back into a blue rubber band.

“Excuse me,” Alice said, and the mother turned toward her and regarded her dully. “I wonder,” Alice went on, struggling with
an unexpected lump in her throat, “if you know when the bus is due?”

Nothing in the woman’s face suggested that she’d even heard the question. As Alice was about to repeat it, she said in a low
voice, “Ten past,” and turned away again.

“Thanks.”

The man on the bench pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose noisily. A younger man approached the bus stop and
sat, rattling change in his pocket, tapping one shoe on the ground, presumably in accompaniment to whatever was coming out
of the earphones he wore. A woman arrived from the opposite direction, pulling a smallish suitcase on wheels. A siren sounded
faintly in the distance.

Alice was acutely aware of the mother’s presence, so close she could have reached out and taken her arm and told her how terribly,
terribly—

The bus appeared and slowed to a stop. The two men got to their feet, the older man’s knuckles white around his stick as he
hauled himself upward.

Alice stood unmoving as the others filed on. Her hand tightened around the coins she held as she watched the woman boarding.
She waited until everyone was on, and then she turned and retraced her steps to the car.

She drove slowly out of the estate and through streets full of people, past shops and parks and schools. On the far side of
town, she pulled into a small car park attached to a church she’d never been inside. She switched off the engine and sat there,
watching the few who came and went from the church. Eventually she started the car again and drove home.

In the kitchen, as the dinner was cooking, she stood at the window looking out at the lawn spotted with dandelions, the flower
beds that were more weeds than flowers, the mint that was running riot in the herb box.

She opened the cutlery drawer and took out her daughter’s last letter, and she read again the news of kindergarten graduations
and birthday parties, and a camping trip to the mountains. She looked at the photos Ellen had sent, of grandchildren Alice
hardly knew jumping into swimming pools, eating pizza, laughing for the camera. Healthy-looking and tanned, with such white
teeth. She longed to be there with Ellen, to leave this hellish place behind.

When the shepherd’s pie was ready, she spooned a serving onto a dinner plate. She put it on a tray with a glass of water,
a butter dish, and the smaller of their two saltcellars. She brought the tray upstairs to her husband, who had taken to going
to bed in the late afternoon and not rising again till the following morning was almost over.

“Guess what,” Adam said. “Nora has a man.”

“Has she?” Hannah closed the door of the washing machine. “What’s he like?”

Adam draped his jacket over a kitchen chair. “Well, I didn’t actually meet him.”

She turned a dial, and water started rushing into the drum. “So what did she tell you about him?”

“Nothing.” Adam hesitated. “The thing is, I think she was hiding him. Just now, when I called over.”

Hannah frowned. “Hiding him?”

“I’m pretty sure someone was there.” He filled the kettle. “Nora couldn’t wait to get rid of me. She said I should have phoned
before coming over—”

“I told you—”

“—and she said she hadn’t time to make coffee because she was getting ready to go out, but she was definitely cagey. Barely
let me get the books I wanted before shoving me out the door.”

Hannah crossed to the fridge and took out a pound of butter. “So you’ve no proof anyone was there?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure.” He got mugs from the cupboard. “I’d bet anything there was a man there.”

“But why would she hide him? I mean, it’s not as if she’s forbidden to have men in your flat.”

“Dunno.” He spooned coffee into the mugs. “Maybe he’s married.”

In the act of unwrapping the butter, Hannah paused. “Married?”

“Hey, I could be wrong,” Adam said. “There might have been nobody there, but I just got a feeling.”

Hannah made no reply.

“No doubt we’ll find out soon enough if there’s someone on the scene,” Adam said. “Coffee’s made.”

“Thanks…” Hannah took eggs from the fridge. She got sugar and flour from a cupboard and lay them next to the eggs. She attached
the beaters to the stand mixer and filled four baking trays with paper liners.

“Look what I bought today.”

She turned back to Adam, who was holding out a little plastic bag. She peered inside. “Iced Gems—I haven’t seen them for years.”

“Yeah—I’d forgotten how much I like them.” He tipped a scattering of the brightly colored little biscuits into her hand and
turned toward the door. “And now you must excuse me—I have to practice my Beethoven.”

“Now that’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear you say. You have half an hour before I go to bed.”

“Plenty. See you tomorrow.”

Hannah bit into a pink-iced biscuit. Just because Adam thought there’d been a man in his apartment didn’t mean there was.
And even if there was, it didn’t mean he was married, or with someone else—there could be a totally different reason for Nora
to not want anyone to know about him.

She filled the kettle for her hot-water bottle.

“Jesus,” Patrick said, “that was a bit close.”

Nora ran a fingernail along his back. “Imagine his face if he’d walked in and found you in his bed.”

Patrick laughed shortly. “Actually, he’s really not my type.” He winced. “Hey, easy with the claws—no marks, remember?”

“I thought you said Leah wasn’t interested.” Continuing her slow trail down his spine. “So I’ll only leave my mark where she
won’t be looking.” Bending and nipping his buttock with her teeth.

He jerked out of her reach. “Cut it out—we can’t take chances like that.” He rolled over, pinning her beneath him and trapping
her arms. “We can still have our fun—we just need to be careful not to get caught.”

She smiled. “But darling, the risk of getting caught is where all the fun comes in.”

I
can’t get hold of Tom,” Stephen said. “I’ve tried ringing him, several times—his mobile is switched off, and the landline
just rings out.”

“Can’t you leave a message?” Geraldine asked.

“No—there’s no answering machine on the house phone.”

“Oh, that’s true. I forgot that.”

“It’s like he’s trying to hide.” Stephen pushed his plate aside. “It’s been nearly ten weeks now. The clinic can’t keep paying
him indefinitely for not showing up.”

Geraldine set her fork down. “Stephen, I don’t know what I’d have done if it had happened to you.”

“Don’t think like that.” He rubbed a hand across his face wearily. “I’ll have to call around there.”

“It seems like you will.” Geraldine stacked the plates and brought them to the sink. “Should I say anything to Alice?”

Her hours had been cut. Now she didn’t go to work till two, and then usually held the fort on her own till closing time.

“No,” Stephen said slowly, getting up. “Best say nothing to Alice.” He took the salt- and pepper cellars back to the shelf
above the fridge. “Tom might lie low if he thinks I’m coming.”

Geraldine spooned ice cream into dishes. “Poor Tom. Poor Alice.”

Stephen thought, but didn’t say,
At least they’re both alive.

“I’m trying to get my daughter to come over for a visit,” John said, “as soon as she gets holidays at the end of the month.”

“That’s good.” Hannah put a hand over her glass as he lifted the brandy bottle. “Better not, thanks. You said she’s in college?”

John topped up his own drink. “Yes, in Edinburgh. She’s just finishing first-year law.”

“And she’s been to Ireland before?”

“Yes. We often came to visit my mother’s family in Tipperary when Danielle was growing up. But she hasn’t been over here in
years, and it would be her first time in Clongarvin.”

“Wonder what she’ll make of us.” Hannah took a tiny sip of her remaining brandy. “Well, I must say that dinner was most impressive.”

“So my cooking hasn’t scared you off.”

“Not in the least—I love spare ribs. You’re a far better cook than I am.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” He set his glass down on the coffee table. “But maybe I’ll have the chance to compare our cooking
skills sometime.”

“You never know.”

He moved closer and bent his head and put his lips against her throat. “I’m glad I met you,” he whispered. “I’m glad you’re
here.”

“Me, too.” She closed her eyes as he moved his mouth to the opening in her blouse. She felt her way to his shirt buttons and
began to undo them.

His skin was warm. His hands were gentle. And his mouth, when he finally found hers, tasted of brandy.

Vivienne was not herself.

“You’re not yourself,” her mother told her at the dinner table. “You never say no to apple sponge. It’s not a bit like you.”

“I’m not hungry,” Vivienne replied.

“That’s what I mean,” her mother said. “It’s not like you not to be hungry.”

“You’re miles away,” Wally said when he called around as usual for Saturday tea with his sister and mother. “You haven’t heard
a word I’ve said, have you?”

“She’s not herself,” their mother told him.

“You forgot to give him the new piece last week,” Robbie O’Donnell’s mother told Vivienne on Tuesday. “You were going to give
him that new Debussy piece to practice, and you forgot.”

“She’s not herself these days,” Vivienne’s mother said to Mrs. O’Donnell as she showed them out. “It’s not a bit like her
to forget something like that.”

“Maybe she needs a tonic,” Mrs. O’Donnell said. “Maybe she’s coming down with something.”

“When can I stop having piano lessons?” Robbie asked, and his mother shushed him and pushed him ahead of her out the front
door.

Vivienne bought a lipstick. It was called Candy Floss, and it cost her €8.99. She had no idea if this was expensive, as lipsticks
went. She brought it home and sat in front of her dressing table and pulled off the top and ran the color across her lips.
She turned to Pumpkin, who was sprawled on the chest of drawers. “What do you think?” she asked him.

He purred gently and flicked his tail.

“I’m wearing lipstick,” she told him, and he closed his eyes and went on purring.

She studied her face in the mirror. She took off her glasses and peered at her shiny mouth. She made it smile at her, and
then she stopped smiling. “No,” she said. She pulled a tissue from its box and rubbed away the lipstick and threw the tube
into her wastepaper basket.

Ugly, Specky Four-Eyes, Freckleface. The size of those feet, they’re gross. What color is red, Four-Eyes? Look at her, she’s
puce.

Nobody to walk her home from school. Nobody to ring and ask her out. No cards on Valentine’s Day, no flowers, ever, for Specky
Four-Eyes O’Toole. Nothing but music to lose herself in, to block out the cruel voices, to take her away from them all.

Music helped her to forget. Music filled her empty spaces. Music was all she needed, until Pumpkin had appeared in the back
garden one day six years ago, shivering and thin, as unwanted as she’d been. Now they had each other. It was enough.

Wasn’t it?

“Dinner is on the table,” her mother shouted up the stairs.

“Coming,” Vivienne called back. She pushed the lipstick deeper into the wastepaper basket. No more of that silliness. She
would be herself again.

She lifted Pumpkin into her arms and left the room and walked downstairs.

“Can’t you stay a bit longer?” he asked. “It’s not even nine.”

Hannah buttoned her blouse. “Nine is my bedtime. Actually, nine is late for me—I have to be up in six hours, remember. Anyhow,
the taxi’s on the way.”

John watched as she slipped her arms into her jacket. “You don’t regret what happened?”

She smiled, put a hand to his face. “Of course not. It was as much my doing as yours.”

He kissed her palm. “Good.”

It had been different. It had been strange, being with another man after Patrick. But John had been tender, and she’d felt
comfortable with him—not, she suspected, that “comfortable” was a word a man would like to hear used to describe his lovemaking.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m just amused at the way things turn out,” Hannah answered. “You never know, do you?”

“No.” He started to say something else, but just then a car horn sounded in the street below—and for a second, Hannah was
back in her bedroom, scattered jewelry at her feet, listening to Patrick telling her he’d fallen in love with someone else.

John crossed to the window and looked down. “That was quick.” He came back and took her into his arms.

“I like how you smell,” she said against his shoulder. “Nice and soapy.”

He laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll walk you down.”

“No need,” Hannah said, drawing back. “You haven’t got shoes on—I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” he said as she let herself out and hurried down the two flights of stairs to where the taxi
waited. She opened the door and slid into the backseat.

“Not you again,” the driver said, watching her face in the rearview mirror. “We’ll have to stop meeting like this.”

Hannah smiled. “I think you must be stalking me.”

His eyes crinkled in the mirror. “How’s your yellow shop?”

“Still there, thank goodness.” She leaned back in her seat. “Will you turn up that music a bit?”

“So you don’t have to talk to me?” But he raised the volume, and Hannah closed her eyes and let the soft, mellow sound settle
around her.

The evening had gone pretty much as she’d imagined it would. They’d both known how it was going to end. She’d sensed John’s
attraction, and she’d been happy to let it take its natural course. And if the earth hadn’t exactly moved, so what? It had
been perfectly pleasant, and she was happy with that.

And earth-moving experiences didn’t last anyway. Her first time with Patrick, at the end of their third date, had been intense,
her climax leaving her trembling and limp—and look how that had turned out. Maybe the slow burners were better.

She opened her eyes and studied the back of Wally’s head. His hair needed a cut. Funny how they kept meeting up. “How long
have you been in the band?” she asked him.

“Couple of years,” he answered, “give or take. I started it.” There was a short silence, and then he said, “So you and Johnny
are an item then?”

“Kind of,” Hannah replied, meeting his eyes again in the rearview mirror.

“He’s a good man,” Wally indicated as he changed gears. “Even if he is from Scotland.”

Hannah laughed.

“I assume, by the way, that I’m taking you home.”

She started. “Sorry—did I forget to give you my address?”

“I know where you live,” he said. “I’m your stalker, remember?” Turning to flash her a grin.

“Of course.” She smiled. “I’d forgotten that.”

When they reached her house, she opened her bag. “How much do I owe?”

He turned to face her again. “On the house,” he said, “in return for a free fancy bun when I eventually make it into the yellow
shop.”

“Oh, no, I can’t—”

“Oh, yes, you can,” he said. “You’re a friend of Johnny’s. Don’t worry,” he added, “you’ll pay the next time. I’m not made
of money, you know.”

She laughed again. “Well, if you insist, thanks very much—but do call into the shop. You know where I am.”

“Indeed I do—good night, now.”

She watched him drive away, and then she took her key from her bag and let herself into the house.

She smelled sweet, she smelled of vanilla ice cream. She reminded him of something in bloom. He remembered her crying that
night, months ago. He remembered turning on the light for her when she was dabbing at her eyes, how she’d said thank you.
How he’d called her back to give her the blue scarf she’d left behind. How he’d wondered about why she was crying.

So Johnny had gotten her. Fair play.