Blood And Water (5 page)

Lunch at Seb and Kathryn’s ran on until just after five thirty and it was almost six by the time they’d got back to Ciara’s house. Enya would quite happily have left hours earlier but as her sister’s houseguest she was at her mercy. Only when they turned into the tree-lined driveway did she feel her shoulders relax and the knot in her stomach unravel. Much as she loved her siblings, she’d had about as much of her family as she could take and needed a drink: not a polite glass of wine, but a dirty great big whiskey. Having wisely decided that morning not to introduce Joe into the ‘family’ mix at lunch, she now used him as her excuse to get to the pub.

“He’s been here alone all afternoon – I think he’d probably like to get out – change of scenery, you know,” she said, knowing it to be far from the truth. Joe was quite happy where he was: in the sitting room, his feet comfortably resting on the coffee table with a beer in hand, watching the footie.

“You don’t mind if we don’t go with you, do you?” Ciara asked. “It’s just we have to be up early in the morning.”

“God no,” Enya gushed, feeling only a hint of guilt. “Anyway, I think Joe and I need to talk.”

She and Joe walked hand in hand the short distance to the local pub, the gesture feeling awkward to her and out of place now she was home.

“So how’d it go?” he asked, oblivious to her ruminations.

“Grand. The usual. Nothing changes.”

She didn’t elaborate and he didn’t look for her to tell him any more. She had shared very little about her family with him and, realising she couldn’t be bothered to tell him about her lunchtime experience, she wondered what on earth she’d been doing bringing him back home with her in the first place.

She’d picked him up, literally, in a bar in Amsterdam: he’d tripped over her bag and ended up face-down at her feet. She’d helped him up and bought him a drink – it was the least she could do – and had been with him since. That was about six, maybe seven months ago, and in that time she’d never mentioned home. Not until she’d got the email from her solicitor.

And here they were now. She watched, troubled but focused, while he dribbled in his sleep onto the floral-patterned sheets. She couldn’t bear to get into the bed beside him and instead moved in the darkness to sit at the window. Pulling back the curtains, she sat into the deep sill and drew them back around her, hiding her from sight. The moon was bright against the night sky, an iridescent magical orb shining down on her as she pondered her past and considered her future. Pushing up the sash window she took a cigarette from her pocket and lit it, waving the smoke like a defiant teenager out into the night air. Drawing her legs up to her chin, she wondered if there was any magic in that shining dot overhead. What would she wish for, she asked herself with a sigh and a deep pull on her cigarette. Ciara definitely wouldn’t approve of her smoking at all, never mind in her house, but the whole day had been such a nightmare she deserved it. She shouldn’t have gone to the lunch, she didn’t want to, but Ciara was impossible to say no to and Cormac had promised to protect her from the anticipated intrusive questions that were bound to be fired at her. And they were. But Cormac had deserted her even before they’d finished their pavlova and Ciara, too focused on her spat with Seb, was useless, leaving her to bat the questions off alone.

The family monthly get-together was just as she’d remembered it: great if you weren’t the centre of attention, torturous if you were. And, having just returned from an almost two-year absence, or adventure depending on which way you looked at it, she was very much in the spotlight.

Her father still knew how to push her buttons. Even after all this time, after all that he’d done, despite her abhorrence for him and all that he stood for, and in spite of the fact that she hated him, she still expected more from him. Alas, just as he had done the day she left, he’d made her blood boil this afternoon too. What a prize prick, she mused, flicking the ash out the window.

So, what would she wish for? To have her life back and her baby and be somewhere else, anywhere else far away from here? As wishes go, it seemed like a good combination. But something inside her, she wasn’t quite sure what, told her it was time to grow up. Her life had changed. Fundamentally. There was nothing in her wish that was achievable.

Is it not time, she asked herself, to wish for something that is actually possible to achieve? She knew and accepted that the days of living outside of reality had to come to an end and now, she told herself, was as good a time as any. She had already tried to put thousands of miles’ distance between herself and her home, but emotionally she wasn’t able to disconnect. Accept it, she lectured silently. This is where you are, this is where she is and this is where you need to be.

A quick spray of deodorant and the room was as good as new, well, almost. Leaving the window open and the curtains drawn back she let the light of the moon brighten up the room and highlight the body in her bed. It was time for her to stay, and him to go. Bending down, she plucked the duty-free bag from under the bed. Taking it into the en suite she took the bottles from their plastic and poured their contents down the sink. He’d be cross, she thought, but she didn’t care. It was time for change. Taking a pillow and a blanket she snuggled into the corner of the couch and snoozed, waiting for the morning to come. Maybe there was magic in that moon after all.

The smell of cooking breakfast woke her the following morning. Stiff from the awkward position through the night, she lifted herself from the couch to find the bed was empty. Nor was he in the bathroom. He must have made his own way downstairs, enticed by the smell of eggs and bacon no doubt. She hoped he’d at least dressed himself and smirked just thinking about the conversation he and Ciara might be having. Joe was a fantastic distraction but definitely not her sister’s type.

She showered, changed and went down to rescue one or the other of them.

But, as she approached the kitchen, she was almost alarmed to hear a pleasant conversation in full swing.

“Enya!” Ciara called, seeing her sister enter the room. “Did you sleep well?”

Enya nodded in silence, looking at Joe who was digging into a full Irish.

“Sit down, I’ll get your coffee,” Ciara buzzed, getting up to busy herself with mugs and water and spoons – she knew that the first thing Enya needed was her caffeine fix. “Joe was telling me that you’ve sold some of your work.”

“Huh?” Enya asked, disorientated by the unlikely companionship that seemed to have sparked between the two. “One or two. Nothing special.”

“Seriously, Sis, I didn’t know you were painting again.”

“You didn’t even know where I was, never mind whether or not I was working,” she replied unkindly then immediately was sorry for her bad behaviour.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s great that you’ve found something that inspires you,” Ciara, ever positive, responded, ignoring her sister’s acid tone. “Did you take any photos?”

Enya shook her head and threw a chastising glare at Joe who smiled back deviously, well aware of the friction he was stirring. She doubted if Ciara would appreciate the darkness of her art. Gratefully she accepted the hot mug of coffee and sat down beside Joe, cringing as he placed his hand affectionately on her knee.

“So,” she asked, looking to distract herself from his unwelcome touch, “what’s the story with Rian and Martha?”

“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Ciara replied, clearing away Joe’s plate. “They’ve been going steady a good few months and now the engagement.”

“How much older is she, do you reckon?” Enya asked.

“No idea, but isn’t it great to see him smile?”

No longer interested in what was going on, Joe made his excuses and left the two women chatting.

“You did well yesterday,” Ciara said once Joe had left the room.

“You think?” Enya replied with a shrug.

“No, really. Dad didn’t make it easy but you stayed calm.”

“It took everything in my power not to tell him to bugger off.” Enya let the words hang before continuing, “But he’s right. Much as I hate to admit it, I’ve got to stop hiding my head in the sand.”

“Why did you come home?” Ciara asked nervously. “Not that I don’t want you here or anything, but you’ve stayed so very far away from us for so long and then all of a sudden you turn up – I’m just curious, that’s all.”

Enya laughed. “I wondered when you’d ask. The divorce papers have come through.”

“Oh,” was all Ciara could offer in response. She let the silence settle before asking the next apparently obvious question. “And what about Joe?”

Joe was sitting up on the bed strumming his guitar.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted when Enya returned to the room.

Closing the door behind her, she watched as he ran his coarse yellowing fingers over the strings. The sound, despite the roughness of his fingertips, was a sweet melody: a sad melody, like he knew what was coming, but, if he was perturbed by her stare, he didn’t say so.

“I think it’s time you went home, Joe,” she said to him eventually.

“
Awwww
what? But we’ve only just got here!”

“No. I’m staying but you’re going.”

“Babe?” he asked, confused, putting down the instrument and kneeling on the bed. “Why?”

“I’m sorry, Joe, it’s the best thing. Not just for me, for both of us,” she replied quietly but with an unmistakable firmness, not looking to hurt him but making sure he understood that this was the end of their journey together. “It’s just not the right time for you to be here.” Her words sounded hollow and weak even to her own ears, but it was true. Joe was past. It was time to move on, get on with her life.

“But we’re going to go back to France, the festival, a little R&R.” He made a little pelvic movement, lest she should misunderstand what he meant.

His lewd performance sent a shiver of bad taste down her spine. Yes, it was time for him to go.

Chapter 5

Ciara stood by her sister, watching as Joe took off in his taxi. She was proud of her, always had been, but never more than right now. It was a tough call but it was a choice she knew Enya had to make and had confidence enough in her to know that it was the right one.

Long after the taxi turned the corner, Ciara steered her inside and without saying a word they walked arm in arm to the kitchen. Ciara sat and watched while Enya made the ever-soothing potion of a ‘
nice cuppa tea’
.

They had always been close. As kids, despite their age difference and the dissimilarity of their personalities, they somehow seemed to gravitate to each other. She never felt that inherent sense of separation that she felt with the others. She assumed it was because they were boys and that little bit older as well as being just plain different, but behind it all lay a constant notion of being somehow mismatched. And as they grew older that feeling intensified, born mostly from her insecurities rather than their actions. She was sure they didn’t mean for her to feel like that; they weren’t maliciously inclined. It wasn’t, she often reasoned, that they didn’t get on with her, more like they didn’t connect with her. She always felt like she was hard work for them and interpreted every encounter as a measure of their tolerance of her. But not so with Enya.

Taking the mug of steaming hot tea that was offered, she smiled up fondly and was rewarded with an equally fond but desperately sad grin. They sat opposite each other in silence, sipping their tea, happy in the calm quiet of the kitchen. Somewhere outside a dog barked and a cat mewed. Despite the million and one questions that whirred around in her head, dying to be answered, Ciara remained mute, knowing that Enya would open the conversation when she was ready. It was good to have her home, she thought, observing her over the rim of the mug. With Enya she felt calm. And safe. That horrible feeling of being perched on the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold on to disappeared. The uncontrollable and overly dramatic compulsion to be the centre of attention lessened. Enya somehow had the power to dull the panic that always seemed to surround her. Enya and Robert: they were the two people in Ciara’s world who were able to see beyond the high emotion and bizarre histrionics. Ciara smiled, thinking of Robert. How lucky was she to have found him? He was a godsend. A gift. They met while on a retreat in the wilds of County Galway. She was there under direction – Father Maguire thought it would be good for her – while Robert was there of his own free will: “to think,” he’d said. It was one of the many interventions Ciara’s parents had tried over the years to keep her ‘disorder’ at bay. Highly strung was how she was described, with no real diagnosis, prognosis or remedy aside from meditation, visualisation, relaxation and every other alternative treatment available.

She noticed him first at registration – it was impossible not to. It was the sound of his laugh that grabbed her first. He had arrived on the bus that followed hers and was plucking his bag from its underbelly when for whatever reason he laughed out loud, a hearty sound coming hard from the base of his belly. Tall and handsome, well, to her anyway, with a few days of stubble around his jaw, he didn’t seem the usual type for an event like this.

Maybe he’s working here, she thought, watching him throw his bag over his shoulder.

But no, he was there that evening as a guest when they sat by the campfire talking about their lives’ journeys, each having the opportunity to reveal their highs and lows thus far. He was funny and smart. She couldn’t help but watch him over the flames, his face dancing with the flickering orange and black shadows. Their courtship was a fast one. He’d quickly passed most of her tests, from meeting both her brothers and Enya to dealing with her strange and oftentimes irrational behaviour. But Robert was generous with his love and soon became her stabiliser. The afternoon that Robert went to her father to ask the old-fashioned way for her hand in marriage, she was sure she saw relief in her father’s eyes. She was never sure if it was relief that she was finally happy or that she was no longer his responsibility. Over the years she had tried her best to win his favour, to make him see her, like her even, but it never seemed to go according to plan. Invariably she ended up behaving more like a simpering idiot, which he seemed to take pleasure time and time again in telling her, while her mother, as always, appeared indifferent. “You’d get a better reaction if you’d told her you were marrying Barry from the off-licence,” Enya and Rian had joked, so obvious was her disinterest.