The People Next Door (18 page)

And now, looking back, he remembered how quiet Ali had been in the car on the way home. ‘You OK?’ he’d asked her, and she’d said yes, she was just a bit tired, her period was on the way. They’d bought a Chinese takeaway and opened a bottle of wine when they’d got home, but she’d gone to bed with a headache soon after the meal, leaving him to finish the wine on his own.

Funny, the things you remembered.

Brendan hadn’t appeared when Ali was moving out. From the dining room window Dan had watched her loading her bags into the boot of her Golf.
He’d seen her struggling through the front door with them, tears running silently down her face, and he’d made no effort to help her.

She’d been pregnant then. About a week, a little over a week pregnant, and neither of them had known.

He went out to the back garden. After a week of broken weather the sun had decided to reappear and Kieran was turning lamb chops on the barbecue. Underneath the wire grid, potatoes wrapped in tinfoil lay among the red coals. There was a jug of water and a glass on the little wrought-iron table. Beneath it, Picasso sat washing himself.

A dog barked. Dan followed the sound over the hedge and found himself looking at Clara O’Mahony lying on her stomach on a cream blanket, almost at the bottom of number seven’s garden. Her little dog snuffled in the grass nearby.

Clara wore yellow and blue bikini bottoms and she’d unfastened the matching top, so her back was bare. Her skin was pale golden and glistened slightly. She was reading, propped up on her elbows, and Dan could see the curve of the breast nearest to him, the nipple just hidden by her arm.

He turned abruptly to Kieran. Anything I can do?’

‘You could get the salad – it’s in the fridge – and the dressing.’

Lifting out the bowl of mixed leaves, cubed feta cheese and olives, Dan thought back again to his days of spaghetti out of a tin, sausages wrapped in sliced bread, dried-up poached eggs on toast.

He really must learn to cook, Kieran wouldn’t be here forever. Next time he was in the library, he’d enquire about classes – give him something to do in the evenings. Take his mind off any other distractions in the neighbourhood.

He pulled a can of cider out of the fridge and popped the top and poured the pumpkin-coloured liquid into a pint glass. He found the little bottle of dressing that Kieran had mixed earlier. He took the pair of salad tongs Kieran had found in a charity shop and stuck them under his arm. Then he brought everything out to the patio, doing his best to ignore the view over the hedge.

Her body was perfect. He bet her skin was like velvet. She must have men crawling out of the woodwork to get at her.

Kathryn stirred her coffee. ‘Pity the good weather didn’t last.’

‘Mmm.’ Yvonne picked up a triangle of shortbread. ‘We had a good run of it though.’

It had been raining steadily for three days now, the soft summer rain that Kathryn usually loved, knowing that her flowers were drinking it gratefully. Now, it irritated her.

She reached for some shortbread, then changed her mind. A pound up last week. ‘So tell me about this Joe fellow. What’s the latest? Any sign of him wanting to meet you?’

‘Not yet. It’s only been a few weeks though. Early days.’

‘So what else have you found out about him? Didn’t you say he lives not too far away?’

‘Well, depends what you’d call far. He’s in Ashfield.’

‘Seventy miles. Well, it’s not the other end of Ireland. And what else?’

Yvonne thought. ‘He plays the electric guitar – badly, he says. He has two grown-up sons, both
married in Dublin. They have kids, or one has. And he can’t understand why I like country music.’

‘Well, there I have to agree with Joe. Anyone else of interest floating into your inbox?’

‘No – a few others have made contact, but nobody sounded that exciting so I didn’t bother responding.’

Kathryn sipped her coffee. ‘No sign of Clara and Barry getting back together then?’

‘Barry? No, doesn’t look like it.’

And is there anyone else on the scene?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Yvonne paused. Although she seems a bit distracted lately, so maybe she has her eye on someone. No doubt I’ll find out in due course.’

‘Mmm.’ Kathryn turned her head towards the window again. ‘God, will this rain never stop? I feel like I’m getting cabin fever.’

Yvonne looked at her. Are you alright? You seem a bit – tense.’

Kathryn shook her head. ‘Sorry, no, I’m fine. Just the time of the month – and Grainne being her usual painful self. Don’t take any notice.’

After Yvonne had left, Kathryn took the cups to the dishwasher and stood gazing out at the drizzle. She was so tempted to confide in Yvonne – God, she really needed to pour out her fears to someone, to have them laugh and say ‘Don’t be silly, you’re imagining things’ – but for once, Yvonne was the last person she could talk to.

In case it was Clara.

Because by now Kathryn knew there was someone else. The perfume, the flowers – and yesterday the
phone call. It was the phone call that had convinced her, the phone call Grainne had told her about.

The two women had been in the sitting room, watching the six o’clock news. Justin had gone to the garage on the corner for petrol for the mower. A mushroom and bacon quiche was cooking in the kitchen.

Grainne had waited until the ad break and then she’d turned to Kathryn. ‘Don’t let on I asked, but is Justin planning a surprise for my birthday?’

Kathryn stared at her. Justin hadn’t mentioned Grainne’s birthday. Wasn’t it still weeks away, the beginning of October? ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well.’ Grainne darted a look out of the window, ‘when I came in here earlier, he was in the middle of a phone call and he just hung up, really suddenly, and he looked quite guilty, I thought.’

Kathryn’s heart plummeted.

‘So I thought it had to be something secret – and with my birthday the next big occasion …’ Grainne looked eagerly at Kathryn. ‘And if anyone would know, you would.’

For the life of her, Kathryn couldn’t think how to respond. ‘Well, I don’t—’

Then Grainne laughed. ‘Oh, there you go, being loyal to him. I suppose he’s sworn you to secrecy.’

Kathryn nodded, trying desperately to keep her expression neutral. Trying not to let her dismay show.

‘I’ll just have to wait so.’ Grainne settled back into her armchair, a satisfied smile on her face.

Kathryn kept her eyes on the TV screen. The
garage was three minutes away – what was taking him so long? He must have been gone at least a quarter of an hour.

Plenty long enough for a phone call, well out of earshot of anyone at home.

She should talk to him of course. Just come out with it, and ask him if there was someone else, if he was having an affair. Even though at this stage the evidence seemed overwhelming, wasn’t there still the tiniest chance that Kathryn had got the wrong end of the stick?

Maybe there was a completely innocent explanation for all this. Maybe Justin would laugh and say, ‘What? Perfume? Oh, that was just—’

Just what? What could it possibly be? What possible reason could your husband have for buying flowers and perfume for someone else and not telling you? And of course that phone call had had nothing to do with Grainne’s birthday – of course he’d have told her if he’d been planning anything for that. So he must have been talking to someone he didn’t want his mother – or his wife – to know about.

She couldn’t bear it, simply wouldn’t be able to cope, if Justin admitted there was someone else, that he loved someone else. So she couldn’t ask him.

What was she to do? She stood at the window and watched the drizzle falling onto her flowers and she felt terribly afraid.

Dan took the plastic sheet out of the big brown envelope and held it up to the light. Someone could have told him it was a fish or a dinosaur and he’d have believed them. No matter how he looked at it, it made little sense. But then, all of a sudden, he picked out the curved shape of the body, the minuscule fingers, the roundness of the head – and yes, there it was, the tiny shadow of his son’s penis.

His son. His and Ali’s son. His heart melted. He could feel his whole chest softening, oozing. Ridiculously, his eyes filled with tears and he put up a hand and swiped them away. They’d made a baby together. He breathed in deeply, twice, three times. Gazed again at his freshly made son. My boy.

He thought about a little boy who looked like him. Maybe they’d have the same colour hair, the same eyes. He’d take him fishing, teach him how to cast a line, do all the clichéd things fathers and sons did. He’d read
James and the Giant Peach
to him, the first book he remembered his own father reading to him at night. He’d buy him his first football. People would know,
when they saw them, that they were father and son.

He wondered if Ali appeared pregnant yet. At what stage would it start to show? She was four and a half months gone now, halfway there. Was she craving any unusual food? Did Brendan have to get up at night to make her a sausage and marmalade sandwich? Was she eating properly? Getting enough vitamins or whatever pregnant women were supposed to get?

He studied the sheet again. He took it into the sitting room, where Kieran sat reading the paper. ‘Here, have a look at this.’

Kieran took the sheet and peered at it for a few seconds. Dan waited. Kieran raised his head. ‘What is it?’

‘My son.’ Dan had no control over the beam that suddenly spread across his face. ‘That’s the first ultrasound.’

Kieran peered down again. ‘Is that the head?’

Dan crouched beside him. ‘No, there it is. And they’re the arms, see the fingers.’

‘Oh, yeah – and these are the legs here?’

‘Yes, and the knees. And the toes.’

‘When is it due?’

‘Beginning of January.’

‘Have you thought about names yet?’

‘Not really’. Dan had wondered about that, wondered how he and Ali would sort it out. They’d have to choose together, however they managed it.

He’d cast around among the names in his family – his father Sebastian, his grandfathers Seamus and Jack, his uncles Tom, Tony, Gerard … and Brendan.

Nothing leapt out at him. He liked some of the old Irish names – Fiachra, Oisin, Eilbhear. He liked Daniel too, although that might be a bit self-indulgent.

He’d told his parents about the baby. His mother had answered the phone, as she always did. If she was out of the house, Dan’s father ignored it.

‘Hello, love. How are you?’ The same worried note in her voice, the note that had been there ever since her brother had stolen her son’s wife. ‘Everything alright?’

She’d had no contact with Brendan since it had happened. She’d told Dan that Brendan had rung the house a few times and she’d hung up on him. And Ali certainly wouldn’t have phoned. So they wouldn’t know about the baby.

‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’

‘No. Nothing wrong.’ Dan took a deep breath and said, ‘There is some news though.’

She cried when he told her. Passed the phone onto his father, who kept saying, ‘God above, I don’t believe it.’

He remembered taking Ali to meet his parents for the first time, the week before she’d asked him to marry her. She’d brought them a box of expensive Belgian chocolates that Dan knew neither of them would eat. His mother had worn lipstick and the shoes she kept for funerals. His father had put on a tie.

Dan would invite himself home to Sunday lunch this week, he’d bring the plastic sheet and they could see the first photo of their grandchild. They’d eat roast beef probably, then apple tart and custard, and they would try not to mention Brendan’s name.

They were probably getting excited at the thought of their first grandchild, but they might be reluctant to admit it, even to each other, under the circumstances. They’d ask about Kieran, and Dan would tell them how he was planning to start going to cookery classes in September, how he’d seen an ad in the local paper. He’d tell them work was going fine, he was getting plenty of books to proofread and copyedit.

They’d feel a bit happier after he’d left, reassured that he was coping.

He was coping. Ali had left him and he hadn’t fallen apart. He was going to work every day, he was looking after the house. He’d finished painting the sitting room last weekend, only a few months after he’d started. The barbecue was up and running – OK, it was no masterpiece, but it worked. He was coping.

But January … That was another story altogether. He couldn’t wait for January. He dreaded January. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when January came. He went upstairs to put the ultrasound somewhere safe.

About twenty feet ahead of Kieran, the pub door was pushed open and a man came out, lurching heavily against the jamb. At the sound of Kieran’s footsteps, he swung his head to look at him, one hand out to steady himself against the pub wall.

Kieran approached the swaying figure, a pinprick of unease darting through his abdomen. Although it was
just past eight, the night was darkening; the narrow street was deserted. From the pub came the cacophonous buzz of several voices talking together. Someone gave a high-pitched laugh – or was it a scream?

Kieran moved to the outer edge of the path as he drew nearer to the drunk man – and then, with a lurch of recognition, he realised who it was. Kieran had seen him around town, of course, over the years, but they’d always managed to avoid a face-to-face meeting.

Too late to turn around now, too late to do anything but keep going. Kieran ducked his head slightly, put up a hand to grab the collar of his jacket and pull it tightly around his neck. Kept his eyes on the road ahead, quickened his step.

‘Hey.’

Kieran didn’t react, kept walking. They were almost abreast. Kieran’s grip tightened on his collar.

‘Hey.’

Louder. Reluctantly Kieran lifted his head. The scowl was the same, eyes slitted. ‘Look who it is.’