Be Careful What You Wish For, page 34
‘If no one knows we’re here they’ll go away soon enough.’ Patrick crossed to Helen and took her hand.
‘Molly,’ bellowed a man’s voice, ‘I know you’re in there. You can’t duck me for ever.’
‘What a racket. The neighbours will complain,’ said Helen. ‘You wait here and I’ll deal with it.’ She closed the living-room door behind her to block Patrick from view.
Fionn was standing on the doorstep, determination oozing from every brick-red pore. ‘I knew you were in –’ he began triumphantly, but ground to a halt when he recognised Helen. ‘Oh, it’s Helen, I’m looking for Molly.’
‘I’d never have guessed it. Half the apartment block would never have guessed it either.’ Icicles were suspended from her words.
‘Sorry about roaring like that. Is she in?’ Fionn looked abashed but stood his ground.
‘No, she’s gone away.’
Fionn stepped across the saddleboard, virtually nose to nose with Helen, who was left with no option but to take a backwards pace and make space for him. ‘She didn’t tell me she was going away.’ He sounded sceptical and she saw his eyes slide towards the closed living-room door.
Helen remembered why she’d never been a fan of Fionn McCullagh’s: beneath that charming front was an obstinacy that told of someone implacable about having his way. He wanted to see Molly so Molly had to be in the apartment; no alternative existed.
Fionn crowded Helen, browbeating her into reversing her position by another few steps. ‘Maybe you could give her a message for me.’ He remembered the purported charisma and tacked on a ‘please’.
Patrick opened the living-room door. ‘Is there a situation here, Helen?’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ said Helen. ‘How about you, Fionn?’ No response, although he did retreat a couple of paces. ‘This is Fionn, a friend of Molly’s – he was just leaving,’ she added.
Fionn frowned from one to the other, then his brow cleared. ‘He can only be your brother.’
It disconcerted them. Helen turned to Patrick, her grey eyes beseeching his grey-green ones. Do something, she pleaded silently. But Patrick seemed just as nonplussed. Fionn’s surprise when they neither confirmed nor denied his deduction was visible. He sensed something amiss but was unable to quantify it. Instinct advised him to get off-side.
‘We’ll tell Molly you’re looking for her.’ Patrick’s words were clipped.
Fionn addressed Helen, also sullen but in a less threatening way. ‘When will she be back?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she lied for no reason she could think of. ‘We just stopped in to drop off some belongings she left at my house. Actually, we need to get cracking ourselves because we have plans.’
Fionn’s departure left her weak with relief. The tension which had kept her upright ebbed and she propelled her legs towards the living room before they folded.
‘Who was that?’ asked Patrick.
‘The fellow I told you I saw at the airport hugging his wife. He’s Molly’s ex from years ago and they’ve been seeing each other again recently.’
‘Idiot,’ said Patrick. ‘He’ll lose both women playing fatuous games like that.’
‘Juggling two women?’ Helen averted her gaze as she posed the question. In case her face betrayed her.
‘You can only keep it spinning for a short time, then gravity intervenes.’ Patrick registered no awareness of the irony of which Helen was acutely conscious. ‘I saw it with a guy at work,’ he continued. ‘We have an exchange programme with a firm of accountants in Washington. A woman came across for six months and he lost the head – lost the live-in girlfriend too. As for the live-out girlfriend, she went back to the US when her stint was finished. He was so traumatised he jacked in the job and hit the hippy trail.’
‘Did you ever hear what happened to him?’ Helen was interested in his fate, despite a sneaking conviction he probably deserved everything served up to him.
‘He met a Spanish woman in Tangiers and moved to Madrid with her. They opened an antiques shop and had a couple of children.’
‘And the moral is?’ Helen’s curiosity was replaced by vexation; the story hadn’t developed as she’d foreseen.
‘No moral. Stories aren’t obliged to have them. Neither are people. Or at least not the value system society at large would ascribe to; consensus isn’t always healthy.’ Patrick eased a hand round her shoulder and Helen realised that during the course of his tale he’d moved from the sofa opposite.
‘But what about gravity intervening to smash your games?’ she protested.
‘That’s not morality, that’s common sense. He had to go off and find someone new to play with. Not a punishment but not necessarily what he wanted either.’ Patrick bent his lips towards Helen, who watched their approach through lowered lashes.
‘Molly always says common sense isn’t so common,’ she murmured, nerve ends tingling as his face neared. Her body leaned backwards on the sofa to make way for his.
A laugh bubbled at the back of his throat and he was so close now she could detect the auburn glint in the stubble already emerging on his jawline. Helen felt at once complaisant and irresolute about how to react but her body leapfrogged ahead of reason and made the decision. Helen’s mouth parted.
‘Never mind what Molly says. I’m more interested in Molly’s friend,’ he said, just before his mouth fastened on hers. Except it didn’t.
She sat bolt upright, the movement pushing him upwards too. ‘But can good and bad grow from the same tree? That’s the question.’
Patrick blinked. ‘I’m missing something here.’
‘Crime and punishment,’ she explained.
‘I never said anything about crime.’ A kernel of exasperation built within Patrick.
‘That story about your workmate who cheated on his girlfriend and had to go into the wilderness for a time.’
‘That was neither crime nor punishment. He was bored with his life and his girlfriend, had a fling with another woman, lost both and went walkabout for a while to clear his head. It’s just sloughing off skins.’ Patrick’s vexation wasn’t decreasing any. He chewed on a rag nail and wondered how Arsenal were faring in their away match at Anfield.
‘So you don’t think it was wrong of him to be unfaithful to his girlfriend? How long had they lived together? What did she do to deserve having her life split open like a pea pod?’ Helen felt an unaccountable urge to weep for the unknown woman.
‘I don’t know how long they were together. I’m sorry I mentioned him; I can barely remember what the guy looks like.’
‘But do you think what he did was wrong?’ Helen persevered.
‘No.’ Patrick stood up and walked to the window; it was raining, one of those persistent drizzles which threatened to drag into the evening. He spoke with his back to her, watching the street below. ‘It was clumsy, that’s how he came a cropper. He was undecided – perhaps that’s why he tried to see both women. He didn’t know what he wanted. I believe you have to want something all the way, not let any impediments stand in your path.’ He turned towards her, flint-faced. ‘I know you’re making comparisons with myself, thinking: “He’s seesawing between Miriam and me and trying to have it all”, but that’s not the case. I want you, Helen; I’ve always wanted you. I’m prepared to take whatever repercussions are attached to spending a life loving you, what you must decide is whether you’re willing to do as much.’ He was speaking rapidly now. She frowned to keep pace with the words tumbling from him. ‘I don’t believe in crime and punishment. Or sin and damnation. I don’t believe it’s a sin to love you, Helen, because I can’t accept this overwhelming sensation I have for you could be harmful. I feel nothing but positive life-enhancing emotions when I’m with you. I want to cherish you – and I will if you’ll let me.’
She didn’t answer for some time. When she spoke her voice was weary. ‘I’ve been thinking about those reports of Nazi concentration camp commandants listening to Beethoven while the gas ovens were switched on. I used to believe it demonstrated how good and evil could grow side by side from the one branch but now I think it’s that appreciation of beauty doesn’t make you a decent person. You can be the most depraved person in the world and still love a Canaletto. Or your children.’
Patrick, floundering in his attempt to semaphore her thought processes, inclined his head cautiously.
Her eyes were moist as she continued, ‘I don’t believe in sin exactly, but I do believe in wrongdoing and in repercussions. So maybe some concentration camp commandants fled to South Africa or Chile and managed to evade justice. But natural justice would still have caught up with them. Either in sleepless nights and fractured peace of mind, or the loss of their identities, or even simply in lugging all that remorse and knowledge of transgression around with them for a lifetime.’
‘What if they didn’t feel guilty?’
‘But they must have at some level, even if only in their epicentre. Otherwise why hide?’
‘Self-preservation,’ suggested Patrick. ‘This conversation is morbid, Helen. Let’s go for a walk, I think the weather might be clearing.’ He peered from the window again but rain clouds continued to scud across the sky.
‘I’m not talking about fugitive Nazis, Patrick.’
‘I know. Now how about something to eat. Naked emotion always leaves me ravenous. You look a little peaky too. I’m going to fix us both a meal.’
Helen allowed him to change the subject because she was too jaded to do otherwise. She watched him walk into the kitchen annexe off the living room and examine the fridge.
‘Lives sparingly, your friend.’
‘Domesticity isn’t high on Molly’s priorities.’
‘Don’t need to be Inspector Morse to work that one out. Has she a bread bin, at least? Let’s see if I can rustle us up a sandwich. Hmm, bread but no butter.’
‘She’s lending us her apartment, Patrick. Do you want room service as well?’
‘Well yes, for preference I’d have liked a hotel but you altered the plan,’ he said. ‘Now, wait until you taste my superior scrambled eggs on toast, you’ll marvel you subsisted so long on the substandard variety.’
He washed his hands splashily at the sink and set to work. Head against the sofa back, Helen’s eyelids drifted downwards. A moment later, or so it seemed, he was caressing her cheek and leading her to the breakfast bench in a corner of the kitchen.
Helen thought she wouldn’t be able to manage more than a mouthful but she found herself chewing and swallowing and enjoying the food with an appetite not experienced in months.
‘Delicious. What’s your secret ingredient?’
Patrick tapped the side of his nose. ‘Chef’s privilege. I told you I’d spoil you for other eggs.’ He poured tea. ‘I’ll hit the shops later and replace Molly’s provisions. Where would you like to eat dinner?’
‘Not certain. Do you really want to go out?’
‘I’m easy. I could order us in an Indian or whatever you prefer. We could watch television or I’ll rent a video. It’s probably not the most glamorous way you’ve ever spent an evening but it could be cosy.’
Helen smiled, grateful for the mundanity of it all. ‘I’ll come out with you. Even if it’s still raining I could use the fresh air. I feel like watching an old Woody Allen film, maybe Mighty Aphrodite, or how about that one where he grows up in an apartment under one of the rides on Coney Island?’
‘Hannah and her Sisters?’
‘It’s definitely not that one.’
Patrick clattered the plates. ‘I’m not a Woody Allen fan. But if the lady fancies some New York angst, with a way-past-middle-aged man having relationships with nubile young beauties, then that’s what she gets.’
‘You forgot about the classic one-liners. It’s always worth watching any Woody Allen film for those.’
‘Such as?’ Patrick collected their jackets and held Helen’s out for her.
‘He told Mariel Hemingway she was looking so attractive he could hardly keep his eye on the taxi meter.’ Patrick chuckled. ‘Diane Keaton didn’t want to boil some live lobsters they’d bought and he asked her, “What do you want to do, bring them to the movies?”’
Patrick held open the door of the apartment, his mouth curved with merriment.
‘I take it back, the man’s a sage. Do you have the keys?’
Elizabeth was by the lift. ‘Hey, Helen, who’s the accessory?’ She was wearing lederhosen and her hair spiked out in knotty cornrows.
‘This is Patrick.’ Helen introduced them as the girl scrutinised him unabashedly. ‘Are you coming or going, Elizabeth?’
‘Today was a working day, hence the dowdy attire,’ explained Elizabeth. ‘I’m meeting some of the gang in Pravda shortly but I thought I’d change into something funky and have a sandwich before going under starter’s orders. Any more at home like you, Patrick?’
‘You should meet my brother Seán, he’s the looker in the family,’ said Patrick.
‘Send him up to Pravda any time after seven,’ invited Elizabeth. ‘They have more brands of vodka than you’d find in Moscow. I promise to wine him, win him and wear him out.’ She winked as she closed the door of her flat.
‘Girls were considerably less, um, assertive, when I was growing up,’ he remarked.
‘We’re much improved,’ Helen agreed.
‘Did I say it was an improvement?’
‘Didn’t need to, I could read it in your eyes.’
‘That, my love, was blind terror.’
‘Still, the mythical Séan should be well able for Elizabeth,’ said Helen.
‘He’s the man that could tackle her and a couple of her friends. Couldn’t he hose them down if all else failed – one of the advantages of being a fireman.’
Emerging onto the street, Helen led him towards a Centra, promising a stopover at McDaid’s so he could admire Hercules after the food was bought.
‘I noticed something about Elizabeth next door,’ Patrick remarked at the junction.
Helen was absentminded, watching for a break in the traffic.
‘She didn’t take us for brother and sister. In fact she acted as though you were my girlfriend.’ He measured her response.
Helen blanked him for a few seconds. Then a slow smile spread across her face, firing him with its irradiation, and he released his breath. Perhaps the evening might shape up to what he wished for after all …
CHAPTER 25
‘So give it to me on the chin, is it good news or bad news? Are you going to Ecuador or staying in Sandycove? Am I losing a friend or gaining a penpal? Are you taking up with a boyfriend or retrieving your veil?’
Molly was back from her weekend in Derry and had wasted virtually no time in phoning Helen. The only delay was caused by an inspection of the apartment, which she examined – half hopeful and half apprehensive – for evidence of licentiousness but discovered nothing more incriminating than an empty Chablis bottle. There were also two full ones in her fridge by way of recompense.
‘Too many options, you’ll have to run them by me again,’ prevaricated Helen.
‘Basically I need to know whether the bonding session went Superglue or came unstuck.’
‘Neither,’ said Helen.
‘Don’t tell me you had a bout of brother-sister nostalgia, swapped childhood memories of scabbed knees and left it at that?’ Molly was aggrieved. She slipped her index finger into the black coil of telephone wire and prepared to feel cheated.
‘The last time we spoke you were warning me about Sodom and Gomorrah. Now you’re scolding me because there wasn’t enough sodoming and gomorrahing.’ Helen’s pitch matched Molly’s in vexation. ‘Patrick and I wanted to spend some time together and that’s exactly what we did. We talked, we drank some wine and watched a video. It was pleasant.’
‘Pleasant!’ Molly spluttered over the word. ‘Pleasant is tea and biscuits. Pleasant is finding a lost shoe under the bed. Pleasant is a seaside stroll. Pleasant is not spending a weekend with the love of your life.’
‘Even if he’s your brother’ was left hanging in the air, unspoken.
‘It was other things besides pleasant,’ admitted Helen. ‘It was frightening for a while, sporadically embarrassing, sometimes loving, nerve-racking on occasion but overall I’d have to stay with pleasant. That’s why I love Patrick, we feel right together. Being suited doesn’t necessarily mean fireworks exploding and corks popping. For some people it’s like being wrapped in a duvet on a chilly night. I enjoy being with him and he enjoys being with me.’ The acknowledgement was an opiate which injected tranquillity into Helen’s voice. ‘Let me tell you what the best part of our twenty-four hours together was. At one stage he was reading a newspaper with a glass of wine at his elbow and I was flicking through your CDs to find some background music and I looked up and felt overwhelmed just being with him. And almost as if he read my thoughts his eyes strayed from the newspaper and he watched me watching him.’
Molly stifled a seeding complaint; this didn’t sound like her idea of a wild weekend. ‘How come you were only together for twenty-four hours?’
‘We’d made the decision we needed to by Saturday lunchtime and then he went back to London on an afternoon flight.’
‘And that decision was?’
‘I’d like to tell you about it face to face.’
Molly thought about pressurising her for a clue but abandoned the scheme; there was an inflexibility in Helen’s voice that she recognised. Anyway, if she knew her girl it would be sublimation and self-sacrifice all the way; it’s better to have loved and lost – prepare for desiccation – give up the ghost.
‘Fair enough. I’ll toddle off to bed now.’
‘Did you find my note?’ Helen delayed her.
‘Which note?’
‘The one by the kettle, it seemed the obvious place to leave it. People always fancy tea or coffee after a journey.’
‘Didn’t venture near the kettle, angel face. I found a couple of bottles of über-plonk in the fridge but that’s all.’
