Fragile Lies (22 page)

T
he phone rang constantly
. Meg Ruane, home from New York. The county councillor enquiring about the progress of his portrait. Emily’s friends from Dublin, demanding progress reports on Emily the calf. Sally Jones rang. She was back from New York and living in Wicklow. She wanted Lorraine to visit her group and facilitate a weekend workshop. Ralph phoned one afternoon when she was walking the beach and left a message on the machine. “Hey there, fellow traveller, how’s life in the underworld? Sorry I missed you. Just wanted to know how you’re getting on. Maybe I’ll drop in on Trabawn one of these days. No red carpet when I call, just a welcome on the mat. Hugs to Emily.”

He seemed in high spirits when she returned his call, teasing her about the farmers she was seducing and asking questions about her art group. His arrival back to Ireland had been a surprise but not his decision to set up his own agency, which, he assured her, was off to a flying start. He tossed company names into the conversation, new accounts he had acquired. She recognised some of the names. He was poaching clients from Adrian.

When she made this accusation, he said, “I don’t have to poach. It’s as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.” He promised to call to Trabawn as soon as time allowed. She handed the phone to Emily who launched into a description about the birthing process of calves.

Michael Carmody never rang. No message on her answering machine, no sudden sighting on the beach. The emotions she had experienced that night disturbed her. She was unable to banish him from her mind. For moments at a time she would stop what she was doing and stand motionless, picturing his intense expression, the hint of underlying sexuality about his mouth, his enigmatic eyes that never stopped probing her face. His footsteps ringing on the garden path had trampled against the grief and anger she had carried to Trabawn, trampled over every rational thought until all that remained was her need to see him again.

Eugene Murphy called to collect his wife’s birthday present. He shook his head when Lorraine showed him around the house, obviously impressed by what he saw. “I have to admit I thought you were cracked when you told me you wanted to buy the aunty’s old house. But you’re doing a splendid job.”

“I only give the orders. Con and Brendan do the work.”

“They’re a good pair of workers, all right. But I can see the weight of your hand everywhere. I’m in the business of renovating old houses in Dublin. I’m looking for someone with a bit of flair to advise me on colour schemes. You could be right up my alley. Would you be interested?”

“Why not.” The idea appealed to her.

“Ring me when you’re next in Dublin. We’ll meet up and I’ll show you what I’m about.”

She accepted his business card, waved him off. What he proposed was different, a challenge. His observations pleased her. The rooms were beginning to take on an identity. Echoes no longer rebounded from the walls. The ghost of a wrinkled woman in a sparkling hairnet sat easily among her new surroundings, keeping watch with her red-eyed dog, cats and donkeys.

She drove to Wicklow and met the members of Sally’s art group. They watched slides of the
Painting Dreams
collection and Lorraine entered whole-heartedly into the heated debate that followed. How could they believe a word she uttered, she wondered. The woman who had so confidently painted the languorous, sensuous images no longer existed. When the workshop ended on Sunday afternoon, she drove to Drumcondra and had lunch with her parents. They discussed Christmas, an insurmountable wall that somehow or other had to be breached.

She would drive to Dublin on Christmas Eve. They would celebrate the season as they always did, follow the same engrained traditions. Only Adrian and his father, who had started visiting the Cheevers for Christmas dinner after the death of his wife, would be missing from around the table.

She left as soon as lunch ended, anxious to get as much of the road as possible behind her before darkness set in. Traffic was heavy along the quays. Sunday shopping and the hint of an approaching Christmas had swelled the ranks of consumers anxious to shop early and shop often. Eyes averted, she passed Blaide House and continued onwards until she came to a block of apartments with an arched entry and a sign, “Bellscourt Plaza”, etched above it. She wondered which apartment Michael Carmody occupied. A motorcyclist swerved in front of her, causing her to clamp too heavily on the brake. The engine stalled and an irritated driver honked as she tried and failed to restart the car. She lifted her hand in apology and turned the ignition, relieved when the engine started immediately. Rain added to the grey dreariness of the streets and the pedestrians – flitting amongst the traffic, heads down under umbrellas – seemed possessed of a manic death wish.

She braked at traffic lights. The apartments were no longer in view. She clenched her hands on the steering wheel until the lights changed and she could move forward again. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she drove into an empty parking slot and located his business card in her bag. She was almost breathless as she tapped out his number. After four rings she lost courage and was about to abandon the call when he answered. Unable to think of any reason why she should ring him on a Sunday afternoon, she clicked off her mobile and flung it towards the passenger seat. Ready to be plucked and dumped by the first man who pays attention to me, she thought. To be so vulnerable shamed her. She jerked violently when the phone rang.

“Why did you hang up?” His voice rushed into her ear. He must have pressed the return call command.

“The connection broke.” She attempted to lie with conviction. “I was driving past your apartment on my way back to Trabawn when I –”

Curtly, he interrupted her. “Where are you now?”

“Not far from here. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“I’m glad you did. Why don’t you come to the apartment? Have something to eat before you continue your journey … Lorraine, can you hear me? Are you still on the line?”

“Yes –”

“Then please come. I’d like to see you again.”

He was dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. From the state of his disorganised work station, it was obvious he had been working when she rang. The computer was still on and a reference book was open beside it. A casual jacket hung from the back of the chair. It was the only untidy area in the living-room, which was small but self-contained, a masculine space, one wall dedicated to music and video tapes, another to books. The paintings on the walls were mainly abstracts, original works. She recognised some of the names; others were unknown. The kitchen was also tidy, as if he spent little time there, the gleaming chrome unmarked by smears or cooking stains. A beef casserole had been simmering in the oven. Steam gushed from the dish when he lifted the lid and tossed chopped parsley over the sauce. Baked potatoes topped with sour cream completed the meal, which, served with the minimum of fuss, tasted delicious.

She discussed the workshop and was surprised, once again, by his knowledge of her career. Remembering her reaction to his questions the last time they were together, she was more cautious in her answers yet, as they continued talking, she began to relax, stimulated by his interest and curious also about his own work. He brought cheese, crackers and sliced apples to the table. She drank water, having refused his earlier offer of wine. It was getting late. An evening drive awaited her yet she was reluctant to leave. When he was in the kitchen making coffee she noticed the painting of his son, which he had had framed in pale wood and hung on the wall. He returned to the table with the cafetière and plunged the lid, filling the room with the aroma of fresh coffee. She made no effort to move from the painting and he, glancing across to see what had occupied her attention, came over to stand beside her.

“I waved goodbye to my mother from that vantage point.” He nodded towards the pier.

“You waved goodbye?” She lifted her eyebrows, turned to stare at him. “How final that sounds. Didn’t she come back to you?”

“She was killed in a car crash a few days later.”

Shocked, she grasped his arm in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “My God, Michael! I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“What age were you?”

“Seven years old.”

“So young to be without a mother. You must have been devastated.”

“I suppose so. It’s difficult to remember how I reacted.”

“Had you brothers or sisters?”

Dismissively, he shook his head. “No. Just myself and my aunt. I lived with her until I went to university.” He was relaying facts, not demanding sympathy, and his arm, feathered with fine dark hairs, had stiffened under her touch, muscle and sinew clenched inwardly against her.

Her hand dropped awkwardly to her side. From the window she could see over the Liffey. The bridges, spanned by spotlights, arched across the river, bearing traffic and people, all of them moving towards an ultimate destination but she, standing too closely to Michael Carmody, had no idea what she was doing in his apartment or why the atmosphere between them could change so rapidly. She remained silent, unwilling to break through his reserve, and he, as if picking up on her thoughts, answered the unspoken question.

“I never knew my father. He left my mother before I was born.”

“Did you ever try to trace him?”

He rasped his hand across his chin, two days’ growth of stubble, she guessed, an abrasive shadow as dark as the hairs on his arms. “My aunt said he was a ship that passed in the night. To find him I’d need a compass and a shipping chart.”

She felt no inclination to laugh, even when he did, and his face in profile, sharp as a cameo, did not reflect his amusement. From the wall, the boy in the painting seemed to breathe with the same loneliness. She remembered how connected she had been to the photograph when she had pinned it to her easel and begun to paint. Intuitively, she had responded to a force she had once taken for granted and then abandoned, no longer trusting in its subliminal nature. But that night, as Michael Carmody sped eastwards towards whatever trauma awaited him at home, she had tapped into an inexplicable energy and allowed it to take possession of her. She had projected onto canvas the yearnings of a young boy who had lost something too precious to be expressed in words and, in the essence of her painting, he had recognised himself.

“How long have you been waiting on the pier, Michael?” She asked the question gently.

His voice was steady when he replied, “As long as I can remember.”

She moved into his arms, or perhaps it was the other way around, and when their lips opened in the heat of that first kiss, it was everything she had anticipated, hunger, longing, relief. She welcomed the harsh scratch of stubble against her skin, his taut strength pressed rigidly against her, and she thought … how differently men kiss … remembering lazy weekend mornings and passion-filled nights and how those interludes became less and less, gradually turning into brief, mechanical performances, snatched when neither she nor Adrian could sleep or as a means of breaking the ever-lengthening silences between them. No more … no more. She wanted him to force such memories from her body, to assault her heart until it beat to a new rhythm.

He wove his fingers through her hair, the palms of his hands caressing her head then curving under her chin, along her neck and shoulders, pressing into the small of her back and she bent into him, willing him onwards. She heard him moan as he lifted her sweater and covered the swell of her breasts, her nipples puckering like ripe berries under his fingertips. Their kisses became more demanding, bruising, pleasure flaring in a hot, almost painful spasm when she unbuttoned his shirt and reached downwards in an intimate searching movement, the sensation of touch so electrifying that she uttered a low surrendering cry against his mouth. Swamped in desire that demanded only one outlet, he forced her against the wall and she was lifted upwards and towards him, her body pliant as clay that he would mould into his own flesh.

Her shoulder knocked against the painting. The wooden frame cracked when it struck the floor. He wrenched himself from her, held her trembling at arm’s length. When he turned away from her, there was nothing to suggest that only seconds before they had held each other with such wanton fervour. It could have been a dream, an out-of-time experience, imagination. There was blood on his lip. She must have bitten deep into the soft flesh. Her own lips were swollen, tender.

He bent down and picked up the broken frame. He stared at the painting. “You’ve absolutely no idea what you’ve done to me.” His voice was a monotone. Anger, shame, fear, grief – she tried to read his mind but he offered her no explanation. “I want you to leave now. Please go.”

She grabbed her coat from the back of the armchair and walked quickly past him. Shock had given way to an excruciating embarrassment. Without looking at him she stepped into the narrow hallway and walked swiftly towards the elevator.

“This is a ludicrous situation.” She heard his footsteps behind her. “I need to explain something –”

“Leave me alone.” The doors of the elevator opened. Furiously, she pushed his hand aside when he attempted to prevent her entering. He mentioned his son’s name but now was not the time to discuss anything, least of all his reasons for coming to Trabawn. Nothing could ease the situation except escape yet still he persisted, attempting some futile excuse, his voice grating against her ears.

“There are no explanations necessary. I simply want you to leave me alone.” She stepped into the lift and pressed the descend button. Her anger clashed like steel against the confined space and he, seeing her distress and realising the impossibility of explaining anything under such circumstances, made no further effort to detain her.

Emily was asleep in the farmhouse when she arrived home.

“Leave her where she is,” Noeleen advised. “I’ll see she catches the school bus in the morning.” She offered to make tea and, when Lorraine refused, insisted on walking back to the house with her. “I know this lane like the back of my hand,” she said. “It’s all too easy to stumble in the dark.”