The People Next Door (11 page)

Brendan, who’d helped them move into the redbrick house they’d bought just before the wedding, then stayed to share their first takeaway dinner there.

Brendan, the only one of his mother’s brothers who’d never got married.

‘Yeah, right,’ Dan had said, smiling. ‘You and Brendan, love’s young dream. Stop messing around and come and eat this before it gets cold.’

But of course she hadn’t. They’d already eaten their last meal together, and he’d had no idea.

And this afternoon, all afternoon, the thought that he was about to come face to face with her again – the first time since that horrendous night – had kept him from giving a tuppenny damn about the frozen food market in Holland.

Finally he’d clicked his laptop shut and come away early. Might as well be sitting over a pint as over a job he couldn’t concentrate on.

His stomach rumbled and he was tempted to ask the barman if he did sandwiches – he’d been too keyed up to eat lunch – but then he thought of the steak that was waiting for him when he got home, with Kieran’s spicy pepper sauce that took the roof off your mouth. He’d keep his appetite for that. Better go easy on the pints though.

He wondered what Ali would say if she knew he was buying fillet steaks on a regular basis these days. In the two years they’d been together, they’d probably eaten steak half a dozen times – and most of those
times would have been in a restaurant. He wondered if she still hated cooking or if she and— His mind refused to go any further with that thought. He couldn’t bear to imagine them doing anything together, even something as innocent as cooking a meal.

Or not so innocent. He remembered trying to make pancakes one Shrove Tuesday, remembered Ali dipping a spoon into the jug of batter and pasting it solemnly into his hair, then running from him, shrieking, when he’d tried to get even.

He remembered how that night had ended up. How she’d washed his hair, poured jugfuls of hot water over his head, sitting opposite him in the bath.

He picked up his pint and took a deep, savage swallow.

In the corner, one of the card players laughed loudly, swooping on the small bunch of coins on the table and sweeping them towards him.

The phone in the hall had rung two nights ago. He’d been upstairs, had heard Kieran coming out from the kitchen to take it. Had listened for the shout that he knew would come.

‘Dan? For you.’

He’d waited until the second hand of his watch had crawled jerkily from three to seven, then got up and walked downstairs, taking his time. Straightening a picture that didn’t need to be straightened. Tapping with his middle finger on the banisters as he walked.

‘Yes.’

‘Dan, it’s me.’ She sounded hesitant.

He said nothing. He could hear her breathing as she waited.

‘Who was that who answered the phone?’

‘A friend.’ What right had she to know how she’d changed his life? How she’d forced him to change his life?

‘Right … you got my letter.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘I did.’ Not an inch would he give her. He turned his hand over and studied his nails. They needed clipping. There was a fresh slit in the wood of the banister, about three inches long and quite deep. He wondered how Kieran had managed it.

‘There’s, em, there’s something we need to talk about – something important. Can we meet somewhere?’

He thought about meeting her, about sitting beside her and watching her talk, watching her wave her hands around, tucking her hair behind an ear and pushing her glasses up on her nose. And then he thought about watching her getting up afterwards, leaving him to go back to—

‘Can’t you talk on the phone?’

‘No.’ She spoke quickly. ‘No, I can’t. This isn’t something I can – Dan, please, just for half an hour, that’s all. Please. I really need to see you.’

Why was she so desperate to meet him? He’d wondered suddenly if Brendan knew. ‘Can’t you at least tell me what it’s about?’

‘Dan, I can’t, not over the phone. But it’s really important for both of us.’

Both of us. He pressed a finger hard on the slit in
the banister, felt the rough edges of the splintered wood. Both of us. ‘OK. Where do you want to meet?’

The fly buzzed past his ear and his hand flew up, too late. The tabletop was pocked with small black circles – had people stubbed their cigarettes out on it when they could still smoke inside?

One of the card players got up and crossed the room to a door that said ‘Toilets’. His companion cleared his throat and spat into the empty fireplace nearby. The barman licked his thumb and turned a page.

Dan lifted his glass and took another deep swallow. His stomach rumbled again and he checked his watch – half six exactly. He tapped his glass on the table and then lifted it. The barman nodded and reached for a pint glass and slanted it under the Guinness tap.

By the time it was poured, she’d be there. Ali was always punctual.

At that minute, as the thin stream of pale, creamy liquid was running down the side of the tilted glass, the door was pushed open. He turned his head slowly, fingers tightening on the empty glass.

She looked the same. No, she looked different. Her coppery hair wasn’t hanging loose, it was caught up on one side with a long sparkly clip thing he hadn’t seen before. She was wearing a red top and a narrow grey skirt with tiny red dots in it. She carried a small black bag.

She looked younger, and softer. She was pale and her face had fleshed out slightly. Dan stood up quickly as she walked towards him. His chair grated against the floor. A toilet flushed somewhere.

‘Dan.’ She smiled quickly, glanced around the pub.

He felt the tingle of sweat on the back of his neck. ‘What’ll you have?’

She dropped into a chair. ‘Pineapple juice, no ice, a slice of lemon, please.’ He caught a whiff of her perfume as she sat – the same, still the same – and he turned towards the bar. The toilet door opened and the card player came back in, glancing briefly at Ali as he crossed to his table.

Standing at the counter, Dan felt her gaze on him. Taking in the stonewashed jeans she’d always liked, the dark blue T-shirt with the small red pony on the breast pocket that she’d bought him for his last birthday. He’d pulled it out of a drawer two days ago, thrown it into the washing machine, and everything else in there – boxers, shirts, towels, socks – had come out a faded, streaky blue-grey. Kieran hadn’t seemed to mind about the hankies.

Pineapple juice. He’d never known her to drink juice – it was always rum and Coke or, once in a blue moon, gin and tonic. She’d never worn her hair like that. Never, as far as he remembered, owned any red clothes – hadn’t she always said she hated red? Was she systematically changing everything? Had her life with him been so awful that she’d had to redo every aspect of it?

As he walked back to the table with their drinks, the door opened again and a group of people walked in, talking noisily. Dan heard ‘… but he didn’t even realise, you know?’ and ‘… every time she does it, I mean every single time …’ and ‘… they never arrived. She sent them six weeks ago.’

‘Well.’ Ali held her glass, twirled it between her fingers. ‘How’ve you been?’

He shrugged. ‘OK.’

Her hair ornament flashed when she moved her head. Her nails were painted white at the tips – another first. She was wearing a thin gold bracelet he hadn’t seen before. She had new glasses, with blue and green frames.

Her wedding ring was gone. Her fingers were bare.

A sudden lurch of rage shot through Dan – she was the one who’d fucking proposed to him, it had been her idea to get married. Two fucking years, that was all she’d lasted. His fingers tightened on his glass as he shifted in his chair, looked past her to the group who had come in, now standing at the counter. Fuck her.

The men wore dark suit trousers and white shirts, with the sleeves rolled to their elbows. Two of the women wore black skirts and cream shirts and the third was in a red trouser suit. The barman shovelled noisily into the container of ice, held glasses under oversized upside-down bottles, tonged in slices of lemon.

‘How’s Picasso?’

Dan let his eyes wander back to her. A tentative smile tilted the sides of her mouth. Seeing his anger, trying to mollify him. Probably realising that he’d noticed the ring gone. Ali missed nothing.

Dan wasn’t mollified. ‘Picasso? He’s OK, I think.’ He drank and wiped the foam from his mouth. ‘I don’t see much of him. He sleeps outside now.’

Her smile faded abruptly and immediately he was ashamed. That was cruel, that was beneath him. What had been the point of it?

‘I took in a tenant.’ He tried to make amends. ‘That was him on the phone the other night. He loves Picasso, feeds him fish heads. Sneaks him into the house when I’m not looking.’

Her smile didn’t come back. ‘Look, Dan.’ She put her untouched glass down and laced her fingers together. ‘There’s no point in beating around the bush. I may as well tell you why I’m here.’

She raised her grey eyes and looked at him properly for the first time, and Dan knew, all at once, what she was going to say. She wanted to come back, it had been a terrible mistake. It was Dan she loved, not Brendan.

The card players stood up, one slipping the deck into his jacket pocket, the other one limping on his crutch to the counter with their two empty glasses clamped between the fingers of his free hand.

He wondered if she’d cry. He’d put his arms around her, tell her he loved her too. They wouldn’t give a damn that the office workers could see them.

She could move back in tonight – he’d go with her to pack her stuff. Maybe she had it already packed. Maybe it was out in the car.

Kieran would have to move out, of course. Dan hoped he wouldn’t be awkward. Just as well now he hadn’t signed a lease. Picasso would miss him, but he’d get over it, with Ali back.

She was coming back, he knew it. He was positive.

‘The thing is—’ She pushed her glasses further up on her nose. ‘God, I don’t quite know …’ She took a deep breath, still looking directly into his eyes. He felt a trickle of sweat trailing down the side of his face. He opened his mouth to help her out, and closed it again. This had to come from her. The fly buzzed past his face and this time his hand didn’t move.

‘The thing is, Dan, I’ve just found out that I’m pregnant, and it’s yours.’

And for the life of him, as a burst of laughter erupted from two of the women at the bar, as one of the men said, ‘Ah, come
on
now’, as the door thumped shut after the card players, Dan O’Farrell couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that.

‘Now close.’

Yvonne felt the little brush sweep across one eyelid, then the other.

‘Open.’ Caroline stood back and studied Yvonne’s face. ‘OK.’ She picked up a little pot of something that looked alarmingly green. ‘Close again.’

More sweeping, then a little skittering around with the brush. She was going to look a right clown. What on earth had possessed her to pay good money for someone to paint her up like a trollop? She could have done that herself for nothing, and in a lot less time. She’d have to find a loo and scrub it off.

‘Now open and look down.’ Caroline held a mascara wand in her hand.

Yvonne eyed it doubtfully. ‘I wonder if we could leave that out?’ It mightn’t come off so easily. She might end up worse than ever.

Caroline raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘No mascara? Absolutely not. No woman should leave the house without it. It opens up the eyes and adds drama – and you definitely need it, with your eyelashes.’

Yvonne held her ground. ‘But it always makes me look like a panda.’

‘You’ll only look like a panda if you rub your eyes, so don’t rub them. Now, hold still.’ Caroline’s free hand tilted Yvonne’s chin upwards. ‘Look down.’

Yvonne wished she had the courage to stalk out. What had happened to the customer always being right? She thought of what else she could have done with thirty-five euro. Bought herself a new swimsuit – her old one was practically indecent, it was so worn. Had a night out with Kathryn, a few drinks and a pizza. Treated Clara to that citrus body lotion she loved. Had her legs waxed – they were badly in need.

She blinked instinctively as the wand pulled at her lashes.

‘Don’t blink.’

Thirty-five euro to be ordered around by Hitler in a white coat.

‘Now close your mouth.’ Caroline held what looked like a colouring pencil. Yvonne clamped her mouth shut – what else could she do?

‘Not so tight – close it gently.’

Dinner with Greg a few weeks ago had been pleasant, as always. Seafood platter, a bottle of straw-coloured wine and a brandy each afterwards. He’d told her he was flying to Tuscany for a fortnight in August, staying at a friend’s villa in the countryside.

‘Sounds great. Why don’t I have friends like that?’

He’d smiled. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I know they wouldn’t mind.’

‘God, don’t tempt me.’ She imagined two weeks
lying in the sun by a pool or wandering through the galleries of Florence or sitting under the shade of an olive tree with a book and a glass of something cold. Wonderful.

And completely out of the question. ‘I’d never get two weeks off in August at such short notice – and anyway, I really don’t have the cash after that roof job.’

‘You could come for a week. All you’d have to pay for would be your flights – and the odd plate of spaghetti.’

She’d laughed. ‘You make it sound as easy as going to the corner shop.’

‘It is – and I’d love to have your company.’

But she’d shaken her head. ‘Thanks, Greg, it’s a lovely thought, and I’m tempted, really I am, but there’s no way. Bring me back something local.’

‘Don’t smile – relax your mouth.’

Caroline was brushing colour onto her lips. Why had Yvonne let herself be talked into this foolishness? Kathryn was fairly sensible most of the time, but she didn’t always get it right.

‘Go on – it’ll really boost your confidence, knowing you look terrific. And I’ve heard good reports of that woman – Mary at work, her daughter had her make-up done there when she got married, and Mary said she looked fantastic. Go on, you’ve nothing to lose.’