What She Wants (44 page)

‘Tell me,’ she said conversationally, ‘do you get much repeat business, Fintan? Because you’re the most bad-tempered pig I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet and if this is how you plan on teaching me to play golf, I’d rather chew off my own leg.’ ‘Nobody’s ever complained before,’ said Fintan, looking hurt. ‘I’m complaining,’ said Virginia, smiling. ‘Now if all it took to learn was just to look and immediately know how it was done, we’d all be Tiger Woods, wouldn’t we? Even you, Fintan and you wouldn’t have to be teaching golf to stupid women.’ He blinked nervously. ‘I’m not up on fancy ways of Dublin women,’ grumbled Fintan. ‘Fintan, I may have lived in Dublin for thirty years, but I was born and bred just outside Tralee and no Tralee woman would take that sort of abuse from a man she was paying for a lesson.’ ‘Well if you’d said that,’ he said indignantly, ‘I’d have been treating you like a local.’ ‘So locals get preferential treatment,’ said Virginia, feeling the laughter creeping into her voice. ‘Could be. But the price is the same,’ he said firmly. When the lesson was over, they walked back up to the club house, a grand old building with ivy growing over the door and a terrace on the first floor where people could sit outside on warm days and watch weary golfers playing the eighteenth. ‘Do you want to come into the bar and be introduced to them all?’ Fintan asked, obviously on his best behaviour now. No, Virginia wanted to say. I don’t want to meet anyone and have to explain that I’m a widow, that my husband is lead a year and a half and that I ran away because I couldn’t race being in our old haunts without him. ‘That would be nice, Fintan,’ she said mildly.

St Cecilia’s Golf Club was olde worlde on the outside and even olde worlde-ier on the inside. Virginia washed her hands in a pretty ladies’ room decorated with rather dark mock Victorian paper and reapplied some lipstick in a gilt-edged mirror with decoupage cherubs on the surround. She combed her hair and tied it back again with the plum-coloured velvet ribbon. That would do. Her fine hazel eyes with the arched brows looked cool and collected and the cream polo shirt and darker cream trousers were suitable, she was sure. Just one drink, then she’d be free to retreat back to her lair and be alone again. Fintan was at the bar when she climbed the steps to the club lounge, a darkly panelled room with an excess of burgundy swagged curtains. ‘What’ll you have?’ Fintan asked. ‘A mineral water, please,’ Virginia answered, looking around. Apart from the young barmaid and a couple of men in one corner sipping whiskey and not talking to each other, the place was empty. ‘The course was closed this morning,’ Fintan said, seeing her looking. ‘Maintenance.’ ‘Oh’, said Virginia, realizing that she wasn’t going to be introduced to many people if there was no one there. Good. She sipped her mineral water and relaxed in her chair. Fintan wasn’t the chatty type and that suited her fine. She had no need to talk to him if it wasn’t necessary. She was finishing her drink and was about to make another appointment with Fintan for a lesson when someone else entered the bar. A tall rangy man with collar-length greying hair, a healthy tan he hadn’t got in Kerry in March, and the upright bearing of someone who’d once been in the military, he nodded at Fintan and smiled politely at Virginia, intelligent eyes flickering over her briefly. He was handsome, Virginia noticed, not gone to seed as so many men in their sixties did. There was no beer-induced stomach here or whiskey

reddened cheeks. Just a lean man with a lined face, a Roman nose and warm, intelligent eyes. ‘Kevin!’ said Fintan, sounding as relieved as a man overboard who’d just spotted the lifebuoy. ‘Come and meet Virginia.’ Kevin held out one hand but before he got to say hello, Fintan went on with his introduction. ‘Sure, you’ll have loads in common,’ Fintan said. ‘Virginia’s learning golf and she’s a widow from round here. Kevin’s a widower. Isn’t that a coincidence?’ Clearly delighted with himself for having got Virginia off his hands, Fintan grabbed his half-finished pint and made his way over to the two whiskey-drinkers in the corner. Virginia’s clear hazel eyes met Kevin Burton’s warm grey ones, and instantly they both laughed. She took his hand, still laughing: ‘Virginia Connell, widow of this parish and would-be-golfer,’ she smiled. His hand was warm and the clasp strong. ‘Kevin Burton at your service,’ he said, also smiling. ‘Widower and also would-be-golfer. I’ve been learning golf for a long time. The first thirty years are definitely the worst.’ Virginia giggled, a sound she hadn’t heard emerge from herself for a long time. ‘Fintan will tell you that the first lesson is definitely the worst. I don’t think I impressed him very much.’ ‘Fintan is never impressed very much,’ Kevin said. ‘He has to be nice all summer to the visitors so during the rest of the year, he lets his normal cantankerousness loose to make up for his efforts. You can’t expect him to be polite all the time.’ They both laughed again, and Virginia was struck by how relaxed she felt. Later on, she wondered what would have happened if Fintan hadn’t introduced them with his usual lack of manners. Would they have laughed so companionably if not at his gauche behaviour? Would they have ever realized that they had so much in common? Probably not. Virginia imagined that she and Kevin would have said

hello occasionally across the bar and perhaps encountered each other on the driving range but that was all. Fintan’s spectacular introduction had done them both a favour. In the end, Virginia had another drink. ‘A real one,’ Kevin had said softly. He was very softly spoken, as if he knew that people listened to what he said so there was absolutely no need to raise his voice. ‘How did you find your first lesson?’ Virginia grimaced. ‘I was pretty terrible,’ she admitted. ‘My husband, Bill, was an avid golfer and he was always on at me to play. I never bothered and now I know why! I’m awful at it.’ Kevin smiled encouragingly at her. ‘We’re all terrible when we start. It took me years to get down to a decent handicap.’ The conversation flowed easily. He knew the people who’d owned Kilnagoshell House before her. He and his wife, Ursula, had been to dinner there a few times. ‘Lovely place but I think running the B & B was a bit much for them when they got older.’ ‘Did your wife play golf?’ Virginia asked. ‘Yes, she was marvellous,’ he said ruefully. ‘We played together a lot.’ They laughed and talked for over an hour. Virginia had another glass of Chardonnay and felt herself grow enjoyably tipsy. Kevin and Ursula had been to the Far East too and they discovered that Virginia and Bill had stayed in the same hotel in Singapore, only on different years. Both couples had gone to St Andrews to play golf, although Virginia grinned and admitted that she’d spent the entire glorious weekend relaxing while Bill had joyously played the old course. ‘Do you know what’s lovely about talking to you?’ Virginia blurted out suddenly. ‘Talking about my husband and knowing that you understand. You haven’t tried to change the subject as if I must be mad to mention him at all. You

haven’t muttered something about how we’ve all got to move on and frantically thought of something else to talk about. That’s such a relief. My sons are nervous of mentioning their father in case it upsets me. Only my daughter-in-law understands and speaks about him naturally.’ She would never have said that at home in Dublin. There, she was buttoned up and kept her public face on show: Virginia Connell, ladylike, gracious and reserved. Here, it was as if she was allowed to speak her mind. Kevin’s face was sad for a moment as he considered what she’d said. ‘People think it’s for the best, you know,’ he said. ‘They don’t mean to be insensitive but they think that you’ll heal better if you don’t talk about the person who’s died. When you and I know that you desperately want to. Nobody wants to hear me talk about how Ursula and I always planned to go on a cruise when we were both retired. They think it’s morbid and that I’ll never forget if I keep talking about her.’ ‘I loved the idea of a cruise,’ Virginia said quietly. ‘That’s what’s so awful, you know. Thinking of all the things you’d planned to do but never did. I had cruise brochures in the kitchen and I used to look at them and think of how nice it would be when we could go, when Bill was retired. Nothing madly expensive, mind you. Just relaxing and fun, seeing the Mediterranean or the Adriatic’ She was misty-eyed at the memory. ‘Then Bill died and that was it: plan over. You can’t go for a cruise on your own.’ Kevin’s hand came down over hers, comforting and kind, nothing more. ‘But you can learn golf,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you out and show you the ropes. Kerry isn’t the Mediterranean, I know, but we can improvise. Two old friends helping each other out.’ ‘We’re not old friends,’ Virginia pointed out. Kevin smiled, a lovely warm smile that lit up his face. After that conversation, I think we’re damn good friends,’ he said.

Sally had left a message on the answer phone when Virginia got home. ‘Just phoning to see how the golf lesson went,’ said her daughter-in-law’s cheery voice on the tape. ‘I’m in all day so phone back if you get a minute. Dominic is working late so I’d love to hear from you.’ Virginia stared at the phone as if it was remonstrating with her for abandoning her family. Dominic and Laurence and Jamie, her sons, Bill’s sons. What had she been doing: talking and flirting, yes flirting, with a man when the man in her life was her beloved Bill and he was dead. She crumpled up the events listing she’d taken from the club, with its notices about a ladies’ fourball for charity and details about the course’s opening hours. How could she have talked so openly and happily to a strange man? Bill was dead and there was no more happiness to be had in the world. To laugh and forget about him for even a moment was betrayal. To laugh with someone else for well over an hour, well, that was the most heinous betrayal. Virginia sat on the bottom step of Kilnagoshell House’s grand curving staircase, the sort of Victorian staircase that Bill had always liked the look of and had maintained they’d own one day. She buried her face in her hands and wept. For Bill and for herself.

The note arrived the next afternoon. ‘Phone me if you want to play a nice relaxed nine holes of golf,’ Kevin had written in a strong, decisive hand. He’d left his number and finished with the words ‘no pressure. Phone if you feel like it.’ She did want to phone. And she didn’t. After a frantic, dream-filled night where Bill had remained tantalizingly out of reach although she could see him in the distance, Virginia had woken feeling as if she’d ploughed the front garden. The guilt of having fun with Kevin weighed on her heart like a millstone. To recompense, she’d got up early and gone to eight o’clock Mass, hoping that the familiar words in the

mouth of twinkly-eyed Father McTeague would penetrate her soul and make the world seem normal. But Mass had remained as horribly uncomforting as it had been since Bill had died. She murmured the familiar words mechanically, reams of prayers tripping off her tongue with ease, but none of it made any sense. It hadn’t been able to comfort her then and it didn’t help now, either. Still desperate for absolution, she’d come home and attacked the shed at the back of the garden, making a huge heap of rubbish from old paint containers to bits of wood with nails stuck on. By lunch time, she was worn out but still miserable. There was nothing she could face but an evening at home on her own. However, she’d promised to go out with Delphine and Mary-Kate, for what Mary-Kate described as ‘a feast of chicken wings and chips in the Widows and a few drinks before Teddy Taxi drives us home.’ There was no moping when Mary-Kate was around, so Virginia found herself having a glass of wine and the Widows famous fish pie, because she hated chicken wings. ‘Fair play to you for learning golf,’ Delphine said, attacking her chips with gusto. ‘And you met Kevin Burton? He always strikes me as a nice man,’ Mary-Kate said casually. ‘Yes, he is,’ replied Virginia, just as casually. She looked up and caught Mary-Kate smiling at her. Virginia flushed. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Mary-Kate innocently.

Matt stared at the blank screen of his laptop. It flickered in the soft lights that were dotted all around the big attic room, the cursor winking at him cheekily. The room was silent, as ever. Talking wasn’t permitted in the writing room. Only two of the seven desks were occupied this morning, one by an elderly lady writer who’d confided to Matt in the kitchen that she was filling out her tax return and needed somewhere Quiet to do it; the other by Ciaran Headley-Ryan who was

typing away briskly. He worked there every morning from nine to one and his fingers never stopped. He didn’t appear ever to be struck by either writer’s block or a crisis of confidence. Matt gazed out the big window at the desolate, windswept landscape. It was a horrific morning, with gale-force winds buffeting the pine trees around the centre and lashing the rhododendrons beside the gate. You needed to be able to write something in the first place to have writer’s block, Matt thought desperately. He’d been ploughing away for months now and it was all total rubbish. The beautiful, lyrical book he’d dreamed of writing for so long, a novel that would have the world’s literati queuing up to shake his hand, refused to take shape. Something had taken shape all right: a third rate TV movie of a novel that wouldn’t interest anyone. His depressed hero was more like an escapee from a bad science fiction book than the main character in something Salman Rushdie would want to review. An avid reader, Matt knew the difference between rubbish and a decent book and, no matter how much it pained him to say it, his was definitely rubbish. He hadn’t had the courage to tell Hope how awful it was to stare at the screen with so much intensity and still come up with only a few terrible sentences that looked even worse when he read them a day later. He’d spent half an hour scrolling through the previous week’s work and had felt his heart sink into his sturdy boots with each passing minute. Tip tap went Ciaran, his fingers flying. Matt had never read any of Ciaran’s historical escapades although Finula had pressed three on him. He didn’t want his own creativity to be tainted by reading anyone else’s stuff. Well, that was the reason initially. Until he’d realized he couldn’t write for toffee. Now, he couldn’t bear to look at Ciaran’s novels on the grounds that it would physically hurt to see someone else making a living out of doing what he couldn’t. Painful though it was, Matt had realized that he wasn’t