The Bright Side (64 page)

It
was
probably
a
good
thing,
I
told
myself,
that
I
wouldn’t be
seeing
Gerry
straight
away.
Even
though
I
knew
now what
I
wanted
to
say
to
him,
the
extra
thinking
time
would be
useful.
The
ideas
and
sentiments
were
all
in
place
–
but the
words
were
not.
I
thought
about
Tony
too,
about
how strange
it
had
been
in
those
few
months
between
our encounter
and
his
move
to
Galway.
It
had
been
hard
to
pretend
that
nothing
untoward
had
happened
while
knowing that
he
was
sleeping
on
the
other
side
of
the
wall.
And
now Lisa
was in there, laughing it up with her boyfriend for all I knew.
I
made
myself
think
about
her,
forced
myself
to,
and still
I
couldn’t
raise
any
strong
feelings
towards
her.
She
was a
non-person
to
me,
a
sort
of
silhouette
.

Sleep crept up on me surprisingly quickly. As it did so, an idea lodged in my tired mind and refused all of my efforts to shift it. My last waking thought was that before I spoke to my husband, I had one more visit to make
.

CHAPTER
28

I woke
early
on
Friday
morning,
and
was
pulling
out
of
the drive
within
twenty
minutes
of
opening
my
eyes.
Gerry might
well
have
been
going
to
work
straight
from
Chrissy’s, I
thought,
but
I
didn’t
want
to
take
the
chance
of
bumping into
him.
Traffic
out
of
Ashbourne
was
heavy,
even
though
it was
not
yet
eight
o’clock,
and
only
worsened
as
I
approached the
M50.
Every
morning
during
my
commute
to
First Premier,
I
heard
the
horror
stories
on
the
radio
and
thanked God
that
I
didn’t
have
to
go
near
that
particular
stretch
of motorway.
Still,
I
was
totally
unprepared
for
the
scene
that confronted
me
when
I
finally
joined
it.
The
phrases
that
I’d heard
so
many
times
in
the
traffic
reports
–
It’s
bumper-to- bumper
,
It’s
choc-a-bloc
,
It’s
like
a
car
park
–
seemed
woefully inadequate.
I’d
been
driving
on
it
for
ten
minutes
when
I
felt
a
giddy
little
rush
and
couldn’t
understand
why.
Then
it dawned
on
me
–
I’d
made
it
into
second
gear.
I’d
driven faster
in
funeral
processions
.

Shortly after nine o’clock, I pulled in at a service station and rang directory enquiries. The woman who answered sounded as if she’d just finished a giggling fit and was looking forward to starting another as soon as she’d dealt with me. Her good humour was so infectious that I found myself smiling as I asked for the numbers of every Bank of Ireland branch in Galway city. To my surprise, there were only three. I wrote them down on the back of an old receipt and thanked her for help. She told me it had been a pleasure and seemed to genuinely mean it.
This
woman’s
in
love
, I thought.
Or
on
drugs
.
Probably
drugs
.

The first branch I rang was in the shopping centre
.

A male voice, implausibly young, said, “Bank of Ireland, can I help you?
”

I cleared my throat. “Hello. I was wondering if I could speak to Tony Mullen?
”

“Sure. I’ll put you through.” I hung up. Right first time
.

* * *

I
arrived
in
Galway
at
eleven-thirty
and
found
my
way
to
the shopping
centre
with
relative
ease.
The
bank
was
smaller than
I
expected
it
to
be,
but
busier
too;
there
were
eight people
in
front
of
me
in
the
queue.
I
felt
completely
calm
as
I
shuffled
towards
the
counter.
And
then
I
saw
him;
he emerged
from
an
office
at
the
back,
holding
a
sheet
of
paper in
one
hand
and
a
biro
in
the
other.
His
stride
was
easy, purposeful,
confident.
He
approached
a
colleague,
a
moon- faced
young
woman
and
began
pointing
out
something
or other
on
the
page,
periodically
tapping
the
biro
against
it
for
emphasis.
When
he’d
finished
speaking,
he
playfully
elbowed
the
woman
and
said
something
out
of
the
corner
of his
mouth.
She
laughed
and
he
turned
to
leave
her
.

“Tony!” I said – loudly, it turned out
.

Every eye in the bank swivelled towards me. He looked right at me, half-smiling. Then he realised who he was looking at and the smile vanished; in fact, his whole face seemed to collapse in on itself like an overcooked soufflé. I stepped out of the queue and went to a vacant spot at the counter. Tony’s lips moved. I presumed he was swearing to himself. Then he came over to join me. The sheet of paper was shaking in his hands
.

“Hello,” I said. “Long time no see. Sorry for shouting.
”

He leaned forward on his side of the counter the way bank staff sometimes do when they’re trying to keep your business confidential. I guessed that Tony was doing it for physical support
.

“Jackie,” he squeaked. “What, what, eh, what –
”

“Brings me here?” I said for him. “Don’t worry. Nothing much, really.
”

“Are you … living here now?” “No, no.
”

“On holiday?
”

“No. I came for the day. To see you.
”

That was the wrong thing to spring on him. His eyes bulged in their sockets
.

“It’s all right,” I told him. “I won’t take up much of your time. And I’m sorry for not calling ahead. I thought maybe we could have lunch somewhere?
”

“Not today,” he said with something like relief. “Honestly. I can’t. There’s a Chamber of Commerce thing on, there’s no way I can get –
”

“Coffee then. Ten minutes, Tony. That’s all I need.” He looked doubtful
.

“Look,” I said in a low voice, “I’m not going to pretend I drove the whole way across the country just to say hello. But if you’re playing
Fatal
Attraction
in your head, you can stop now. I’ve got two questions to ask you. Two. Then I’m gone. And chances are, you’ll never see me again.
”

“It’s not that I’m sorry to see you,” he said and for the first time, gave me a smile – half of one at least
.

“Two questions,” I repeated
.

He glanced at his watch. “There’s a place called Beans ‘n’ Biscuits a few doors away. Go out of here and turn right. I’ll see you there in a few minutes.
”

“Thank you. What’ll I get you, coffee-wise?
”

He looked at me as if it was the strangest question he’d ever been asked. “Latte,” he said, “please.
”

I smiled as reassuringly as I could and left
.

* * *

Beans ‘n’ Biscuits was one of those coffee-shops that made me feel old. I’d grown up thinking of coffee-shops as places where furry-hatted old dears came together to talk about who had died in the past week. They had sturdy square tables and straight-backed, no-nonsense chairs. Apart from ordinary tea and ordinary coffee, they offered sticky buns and Black Forest Gateaux, served by red-faced and invariably fat menopausal women. Beans ‘n’ Biscuits, on the other hand, had a menu that filled two large blackboards. It sold eight different types of coffee, only a few of which I’d ever heard of. All of the staff were young and good-looking, and most of them were elaborately pierced. It had a few stools by a narrow bar and was otherwise exclusively furnished by battered sofas. If a furry-hatted old dear ever managed to get into one, I thought, she’d have a hell of a time getting out again
.