What She Wants (74 page)

His pale grey eyes had swept over the bit of the form she’d filled out with the words ‘separated’ on it, although there was still no formal separation, and he’d said nothing, which was a relief. If he’d looked at her with a smidgen of pity, Hope was prepared to give him a steely glance and tell him it was none of his business. But Mr Murray had merely told her she was very healthy and explained about the team of lovely midwives in the hospital.

Hope had felt as if she was coping until the day of her ultrasound scan. Sitting in the waiting room, she couldn’t help but remember the other times she’d had scans. For Millie’s first scan, Matt had sat holding her hand tightly as if something dreadful was going to happen.

‘I want to be with you through all of this,’ he’d said earnestly, gripping her hand so firmly that Hope had felt as if the circulation was going to be cut off.

And he had been with her through it all. Millie had taken hours to emerge, so long, in fact, that the epidural had worn off and giving birth to her was like giving birth to an indignant baby elephant who objected to being dragged out of a nice warm womb.

Toby’s birth had been a foretaste of him as a child: no trouble at all. The epidural was still in effect when Matt brought in a snipe of champagne to toast his son and heir and when Hope had taken one tiny, forbidden sip, with baby Toby lying in her arms, she’d felt plastered.

Now she thought about this little baby, the one Matt didn’t know about. This baby wouldn’t feel left out and

forgotten, she was determined about that. This baby would be loved and adored. But what about its father, said the little voice in Hope’s head. Doesn’t he have the right to know about his child? Doesn’t he have the right to love this baby as much as you? No, said the other voice stubbornly. He doesn’t. He gave up that right when he walked out without giving you a chance to explain. Hope knew she’d have to tell him some time, but she wanted to postpone it for as long as possible. She simply couldn’t face the fighting and the recriminations when she did. Still thinking about Matt, Hope parked the car in the big car park in Killarney and checked her shopping list: pregnancy trousers, new dungarees for Toby and more new shoes for Millie. She was just leaving the car park, with Toby in his pushchair and Millie stomping along in the red Wellington boots she refused to take off despite the heat of the day, when a loud, faux posh voice assailed her: ‘Hope, helloo.’ It could only be Finula. Fixing a rigid smile on her face, Hope turned to see Finula rushing across the road from the beautician’s, flamboyant purple layers of clothes flying. From the way she was holding her hands ahead of her like a person feeling their way round a house in the dark, it was clear that a manicure had been on the cards. Sure enough, Finula’s talons were blood red and beautifully painted, and the scent of nail varnish would have knocked a horse out. ‘How have you been?’ said Finula, with heavy emphasis on the word ‘been’. ‘Ciaran and I have been so worried about you.’ At any sign of pity, Hope felt a deep guttural growl emanate from withim her. She knew she was due for lots of local Pity. It was clear that the locals had worked out that Matt hadn’t been around for a long time. Hope was sure they reckoned that his earlier absences had been trial separations and that now, he was gone for good. Miss Murphy who did the church flowers had thrown her arms round Hope

the day before and said she was ‘so sorry you poor dear, and I’m saying a novena that Mr Parker comes back to you.’

It had been kindly meant, but Hope wasn’t in the mood for pity. Still, she could cope with sweet Miss Murphy better than with Finula Headley-Ryan, who had no doubt been running a book on how long Matt and Hope’s marriage would last from the first moment they arrived in the village.

‘I’m wonderful,’ gushed Hope, giving Finula a dazzling smile.

‘You’re so brave,’ Finula said, shaking her head sorrowfully. ‘I don’t know what went on and I don’t want to,’ she said.

I bet, Hope thought to herself.

‘But,’ Finula went on, ‘if I get my hands on Matt, I’ll kill him for leaving you here all on your own. He should be shot with a shovel for thinking it’s right to go off and leave you. All couples fight, it’s not breaking up that’s the trick.’

Hope’s mouth was a perfect oval. This was not what she’d expected from Matt’s most loyal fan club.

‘Come on,’ said Finula cosily, ‘have you time for a quick cup of coffee? You’ll have to take my purse out of-my handbag to pay for it, though. I dare not smudge my nails.’

Hope was still reeling from the unexpectedness of it all when the four of them were seated with cappuccinos for the adults and ice creams covered in sprinkles for the children. Millie proceeded to slobber her ice cream all over the place. Hope ignored her.

‘Don’t tell me anything,’ Finula insisted, ‘but are you doing all right? Ciaran and I aren’t the filthy rich or anything, but we’re comfortable and if you need anything … I’ve been meaning to drop by for a week and ask if you wanted me to take the little ones some night but to be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d welcome me or run me.’

Hope had to grin. ‘I would have thought you’d be on Matt’s side in this one,’ she said wryly.

‘I adore Matt,’ Finula said throatily, sounding more like

her old self, ‘but he’s artistic and artists are often not in touch with the real world. And us girls have to stick together in times of need. I mean it about the money.’

Hope was touched. ‘I’m fine,’ she assured Finula. ‘We’re not on the breadline yet. Matt’s boss in Bath is still off work, so he’s still running the agency. I’ve been working three days a week at the tourist office and to be honest, I could work there full time because of the state of the place.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Finula dramatically. ‘I have been onto them for years to get them to have something on their website about the artistic centre. I might as well be talking to the wall for all the good it does me. They don’t even have the centre on their maps!’

‘There are a lot of improvements that could be made,’ Hope agreed diplomatically, not wanting to be disloyal to the tourist officer, a nervy man named Ronan, who would visibly perspire when he spotted a phalanx of tourists bearing down on the tiny office. Since Hope had arrived to give him a hand part-time, Ronan had been giving her more and more responsibilities to the point that Hope could no longer get her work done in just three half-days.

‘It was his novel, wasn’t it?’ Finula asked suddenly. ‘The reason Matt left. I knew it, Ciaran told me that he could see Matt having problems every day and knew the novel was going very badly. Men are sensitive and when their work doesn’t go well, it kills them. Their masculinity is threatened.’

Not half as much as when their wives play around, Hope thought grimly, but she was surprised at the revelation. ‘Ciaran thought Matt’s novel wasn’t going well?’ she asked.

Finula nodded. ‘He said Matt spent hours typing and then he’d delete it all. Ciaran had another friend it happened to: it destroyed him not being able to write when he was so sure he had a book in him.’

Hope was silent. She hadn’t known. Suddenly more of Matt’s behaviour made sense. She’d had no idea that Matt’s novel wasn’t working out. He hated talking about it and

she, blindly, had assumed it was because he was caught up in the creative process. When, in fact, he’d been stumbling around in pain and she hadn’t noticed his anguish. To think she’d blamed him for not noticing her loneliness and depression, when all along she hadn’t noticed his either. ‘It was that, wasn’t it?’ asked Finula, eyes shiny with inquisitiveness.

Hope had to grin. That was much more like the Finula she knew: sensitive as a bull in the Waterford Crystal factory.

‘I can’t say, Finula,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the offer of help, which I’ll refuse gratefully. I may take you up on the babysitting someday, though.’

The other woman beamed. ‘Never say I don’t do my bit for the community.’

That evening, Matt phoned at his specified time of six. He phoned every night to speak to the children and nowadays, Hope merely said hello and passed him on to Millie.

Tonight, however, he asked Hope to stay on the line.

‘I’d like the children to come and stay with me,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen them for so long.’

‘They can’t travel on their own,’ Hope said sharply. ‘I’m not sticking them on a plane with a “please look after this child” sign around each of their necks.’

‘I’ll come and get them. I want them for a week. I’m sure your lawyer would think that’s acceptable,’ Matt retorted irritably.

‘I don’t have a lawyer,’ Hope said quietly.

‘Well, let’s hope you don’t need one.’

She’d been on the verge of telling Mary-Kate, Delphine and Virginia so many times. Her three friends were so kind to her, dropping by endlessly, babysitting in turns so the others could take Hope out, arriving on lonely Friday nights with videos, food and homemade wine from the craft shop, which Hope had to pretend to drink and then empty her glass into the nearest plant pot in case they worked out she wasn’t drinking alcohol and came to the inevitable conclusions. Her

weeping fig plant would never be the same after having glass upon glass of wine thrown into it. The only good news was that Delphine and Eugene had set a date for the wedding. They were getting married in two weeks’ time. ‘We had a long engagement, so we thought we’d have a shot-gun wedding,’ joked Delphine. Pauline would have to like it or lump it, as Mary-Kate said gleefully. To save funds, Delphine and Virginia were making the dress, Mary-Kate’s help having been dispensed with in the matter of fashion. ‘I’d be getting married in a grey serge pinafore with a good pair of sensible black shoes on my feet if you had a hand with the dress,’ said Delphine one evening as the four of them sat in Hope’s kitchen and pored over bride’s magazines. ‘No, no,’ laughed Virginia, ‘dark grey wool,’ she corrected Delphine, ‘and those lace up boots.’ ‘Dark grey wool just happens to suit me,’ retorted Mary Kate, pretending to be hurt as the other three went off into peals of laughter. ‘I suppose I’m wedding co-ordinator, then? Seeing as how I have no sense of style but am ruthlessly efficient.’ ‘Don’t you know I love you, you big eejit,’ said Delphine fondly, throwing her arms around her aunt. ‘Stop messing,’ said Mary-Kate, pleased. ‘Now, let’s get on with this list. Will we assume your mother is coming, Delphine?’ ‘Yes,’ said Delphine firmly. ‘I am going to deliver the invitation myself and if she decides she won’t come, then that’s her choice.’ ‘Sam will be so proud of you,’ Hope said with a grin. ‘How is she?’ asked Virginia. ‘Not bad. She’s off to America for a conference soon and well… she’s a bit miserable really. Remember Morgan, that lovely man she liked?’

‘Yes,’ breathed Delphine. ‘She saw him with someone else, another woman, I mean.’ ‘The rat!’ spat Delphine. ‘Some young woman, too, which hasn’t exactly cheered Sam up,’ Hope sighed. ‘Since she hit forty, she’s feeling very vulnerable. I think her confidence has taken a bit of a dive.’ ‘Make her come here for the wedding,’ begged Delphine. ‘We’ll soon cheer her up.’ ‘She says she’s coming for a visit soon and she’d be thrilled to be invited. But won’t that put your numbers up too much?’ Hope said. Mary-Kate looked up from her list and smiled. ‘The more the merrier.’ They chatted about satin versus raw silk, weighed up the options for where the wedding reception could be held and ended up discussing Hope’s job in the tourist office and how much more sensible it would be if she was working there full time instead of part time. ‘I don’t know why you don’t apply for Ronan’s job as tourist officer,’ Mary-Kate said as she made the wedding list in her neat handwriting. ‘You’d be perfect for it, Hope.’ ‘But how can I apply for his job when he’s got it?’ asked Hope, confused. ‘Oh no, here goes Deep Throat again,’ giggled Delphine, deep in the realms of medieval satin-trimmed ball gowns with shove-‘em-up corset detail. Mary-Kate sighed. ‘Just because I know what goes on around here, there’s no need to be sarcastic. I was just saying that I believe Ronan’s house is going to be up for sale soon. I met Lara, the estate agent, the other day and she told me.’ They all stared at her. ‘And he’s not looking for anything else round here which implies that he’s moving out of the area.’ ‘Mary-Kate and the estate agent are in cahoots,’ Delphine revealed. ‘We are not,’ said Mary-Kate equably. ‘I just like to know what’s going on. Anyway, Hope, you’d be perfect for that

job. You have a newcomer’s eye for the place and you can see what needs to be done, along with having a real love for Redlion.’

Hope was touched. ‘You’re right, you know. I do love it here. But could I be a good tourist officer?’

‘You’d be better than Ronan,’ said Delphine without thinking. ‘Ooh,’ she said as they all stared at her, ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

Hope considered this. ‘I actually enjoy working there and it drives me mad when I see how little Ronan does. It’s only because Redlion is such a pretty village and is on the main road that it does so well at all. But if we worked hard at it, we could have hordes more visitors coming and not just ones who come in coachloads and leave later that afternoon, but people who rent houses in the area and stay in the small B & Bs. Finula’s right, you know, she said that the artistic centre is an important focal point for the area. Imagine if we marketed the town in a cultural way and looked at the important artists, poets and writers who’ve worked here.’

‘Like Matt’s uncle Gearoid?’ deadpanned Mary-Kate, ‘the scratch and sniff artist himself.’

Hope laughed. ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind. I still haven’t seen any of his poetry. I daresay he probably limited himself to writing haiku on Spam, which is a big thing on the internet, I hear.’

‘That’s a brilliant idea, Hope,’ Virginia said enthusiastically. ‘Not the Spam, but the artistic links to drum up tourism. There’s an artist from around here who’s exhibited all over the world. Kevin Burton’s got one of his pictures. And it’s not the one of Ursula, either,’ she added wryly.

They’d all heard the sad story of the room redecorated in exactly the same way as Ursula Burton had decorated it, with her portrait staring down from the wall as if warning all interlopers off.