My Husband's Wives (13 page)

He sighed, long, deep and guiltily. ‘She is Adelajda, okay. She works at the club, she's a…'

‘A waitress?'

‘Yes, a waitress.' He reddened slightly; he had met his match.

‘Well, she's very beautiful; you'll both make a striking couple.' She managed to sound wistful.

‘Okay, o-fucking-kay, I'll pay the rent on this place, just for a month or two, until you can get sorted, maybe get into a houseshare with a couple of girls like yourself.' If she'd been bothered, she might have wondered what kind of girls would ever be really like her.

‘You are a good man; you have always been an honourable man. And, Adelajda, that means noble, I think; I'm sure she will make you a good partner.' She could not wait for him to be gone. ‘I have to be honest with you, Vasile.' She reached across, held his hand and managed to keep her face poker straight. ‘This is very upsetting for me. Better if you go quickly, better if we do not see each other for some time. I wish you both well, I really do, but even seeing you will make me sad. How about…' she breathed deep, ‘how about if I just slip into the bath, and you take anything you want.' He began to interrupt her, obviously overcome by her kindness. Oh, if only he knew.

‘You are very precious.' Vasile said the words softly, but he almost tripped over himself to get to the bathroom and empty out his stock of foul-smelling body lotions and potions.

While she soaked away her swollen ankles and tired body, it was hard not to break into cheerful song. She allowed herself to smile as he packed up his bags and pulled the front door fast behind him. Later, she found his keys left on the kitchen table, anchoring down twelve hundred euros in balled up fifty-euro notes. Guilt money? It was three months' rent and, best of all; she was free.

*

Kasia told Grace about Vasile when she called round the following day to check that she was okay. He had been nice once, kind and gentle, but then something had changed. She still wasn't sure why. Since they had arrived in Dublin, it was as though he felt he owned her. She was afraid of him. Maybe getting out of Romania was the only reason he wanted to be with her at all. After all, he could have had any girl in Bucharest. Why he picked her, she would never know.

‘Really, have you checked in the mirror lately?'

‘No, girls like me are ten a penny in Bucharest. Everyone is skinny, everyone has white teeth, we have more toothpaste than chocolate and our coffee is like the dirty water.' Kasia shrugged her shoulders. ‘I thought we were happy in Romania. We had nothing, of course, but then that made us no different to anyone else. Paul said I should come here and maybe I would have come, eventually, but Vasile really wanted to get out of Romania. Only when we got here, it felt as if he was threatened by everything that we did not have before. He did not trust Paul and he did not trust me. There were no limits to what he could have, or what he could do, and that included how he treated me.'

‘A bully?' Grace closed her eyes for a second.

‘Yes, even still, although he left his keys behind, I am afraid.'

‘Will he try to come back?'

‘No. I do not know. He has never left before. Hopefully he is besotted with Adelajda.'

‘So,' Grace tapped her fingers against the table, ‘you're a million miles away.'

‘No, it is just this place, it is home…' She considered the little flat. Most of the furniture belonged to the landlord, apart from an old dressing table she'd salvaged from a skip and a few throws and cushions picked up at the Sunday markets. ‘But I will have to leave. I have given my notice to the agent this morning. I need to get the deposit back. It won't be safe here, if Vasile comes back and thinks I have been hiding the baby from him…' She closed her eyes, shivered in spite of the fact that the flat was cosy.

‘What about the girls you work with? Is there no Romanian community here you could get a little support from?'

‘Vasile did not want me talking to people, and now I would prefer if he didn't hear about the baby. It is better for me if I keep away from anyone who might tell him.' Kasia had a feeling it was the only way she'd ever feel safe. She wasn't yet two months pregnant; with her age and shape, she could get to six months without it being apparent, if she chose her clothes wisely. ‘I don't think it would be safe for anyone to be near me. Whatever chance I have, I think it is best for him to think that I am as mad as a bag of crabs or…' She paused; she was afraid of Vasile. ‘Or have him think that I've disappeared.'

‘You don't think that's a bit drastic?'

‘You don't know Vasile. I am afraid if he realizes I am pregnant he will want to come back, to be a man about it. He will not falter in his duties. It would look bad for him, among the other men. He would not like that. He could still have his women on the side. That would be okay. That would be different as far as Vasile would be concerned, but he'd have to stand by the pregnant girlfriend, wouldn't he?'

‘I… I suppose.'

Perhaps Grace Kennedy thought she was mad, but then, Grace hadn't met Vasile.

Grace thought there could be nothing worse than visiting the mortuary. She got through it, buried the pain as much as she could; it was easier when you still didn't quite believe it. Funny how the mind works. She stood over Paul, looked into that so familiar face, and yet she could convince herself it wasn't real. It was shock, of course. The one thing worse was telling Delilah. She spent the car journey home framing the words, conscious that Delilah would always remember those few terrible moments. That was all she had, a car journey to prepare Delilah for a lifetime. The fact that it was already on the news was neither here nor there. Grace was in no state to have a fight with the radio stations, all she wanted to do was curl up and pretend that life was the same as before even if it wasn't and she knew it never would be the same again.

In the end, she told her at the kitchen table, held her close for longer than she had done in a while. Grace couldn't remember the words she used, but Delilah understood. Her body shaking with sobs then, later wracking because there was no more left within her to come out. Grace gave thanks for the tears; far better that than none at all.

*

It was two days now. Two days since Delilah had left her room. She'd hardly eaten, wouldn't speak, and Grace had no one to turn to. What did Patrick know of girls, of teenagers, of dealing with the death of a husband, a father, a liar? Grace hadn't slept. She'd gone through the day, the same words circling about her brain as though on loop: he's gone, he's gone, he's gone. This time, he wasn't coming back. There was no way to console herself that, by some means, sometime, maybe a long time from now, they'd be together again, just as it was all those years ago. The worst thing was that now, she wasn't sure if that was real at all. After all, perhaps Evie and Annalise had felt the same way; weren't they married to him too? How would she ever figure it all out? It hurt even more when she thought about it. Maybe this was payback? God having the final laugh. Her mother believed in eternal life; the reward for all that catholic guilt. She believed that one day she'd see her husband again, if she lived a good enough life. They'd be united in the next world. Grace sighed; perhaps the price was not so high for that kind of peace of mind.

At around nine in the morning, she walked from her silent kitchen. She couldn't remember cooking for days. They'd lived on a diet of crackers and toast and whatever spread was in the fridge. She had to get her act together, if only for Delilah. She was still a child, even if at fifteen, she seemed already too grown up to be reminded of it.

‘Please Delilah, just eat something, have something more than coffee. We have to start getting on with things.' She couldn't think about the funeral, and for the first time in years she didn't feel guilty about all the work she wasn't getting done. Grace couldn't think of anything, really. Her mind felt as though it had ruptured along a fault line. She resorted to chocolate fudge ice cream, but even that didn't tempt Delilah.

So. Today.

Grace made a small pot of tea for both of them. Even the Darcy pot was a memory of Paul. A weekend in London, all three of them, before it meant much to Delilah. They'd spent more time in the museum shop than the museum. She smiled sadly as she carried it upstairs to Delilah's room. It seemed to Grace that the view of the Dublin Mountains had entranced her daughter. Maybe they were helping to block out some of the pain she was feeling. ‘Have some tea, Delilah.' Grace left the clay pot down on the desk her daughter was supposed to use for study. It wore more nail polish marks than ink stains. She sat on the side of Delilah's bed. ‘Come on, I know you're awake. Please, have some tea with me and then I promise I'll leave you for a while.' Grace felt she was sitting on an emotional tightrope as the girl stirred. Delilah had been spiralling away from her for some time now. She didn't want this to be the final blow. She caught her breath at the sight of her. Throughout her childhood, Grace had to remind herself that yes, she was actually her daughter. A gift she probably didn't deserve and one she might so easily have lost. Today, she looked as she had when she was four years old. All pink cheeks, tousled hair and ruby lips. When she opened her eyes, it was as though she was looking into Paul Starr's face. It made her catch her breath.

‘What do you want me to say?' Delilah tossed towards her, sleep still hanging in her eyes. ‘That everything will be okay, that it's all right that my father is dead? I'm fine with that and you can go and paint a picture about it?' Hurt more than malice clouded her voice, but still Grace caught that underlying resentment that she first noticed when Paul left them to move in with Annalise.

‘No, of course that's not what I want. Delilah, I just want to help you get through this.' For a moment, in her mind's eye, Grace recalled herself. Similar age to Delilah, walking into that studio, seeing her father desperate, pathetic, and then one day, dead.

‘Oh yeah, I can see how you might do that all right.' Sarcasm didn't suit Delilah, but Grace stopped herself from saying it.

‘I remember what it's like, Delilah. I lost my own father.' Grace didn't need to remind her daughter of this. Every time there was a mention of her work, the ghost of Louis Kennedy was resurrected and his tragic suicide was very much a part of his legacy.

‘Sure. We all know about that; the whole country knows about that. But what was your mother like?' Delilah pulled herself up in the bed, wrapped her arms protectively about her knees. ‘Was she always there for you? Or did she spend her time consumed by her career? Did you have sisters, family you could turn to? Or did she set out to break up your family by deciding that she'd take the pill, send your father away so he would get another family and forget about the one he had?' There was spittle coming from her mouth. Her eyes were angry, but the tears that flowed down her face were teeming with anguish and pain.

‘I…' Grace couldn't find the words. How did Delilah know? Had she heard them arguing? They'd been so careful so she wouldn't ever learn why they'd parted. ‘Marriages are not that black and white.'

‘Oh, please Mum. I'm not stupid; I'm not a child anymore. I do have a brain. I can work things out.' She roughly wiped away the tears and snot from her face. ‘I don't want to talk to you anymore.'

‘Delilah, please, you're making this even worse than it already is. He loved you very much. And he never really left us; we saw as much of him as any of your friends do of their fathers.'

‘That's not the point.' Delilah's voice had grown cold and, in an instant, Grace was brought back to the conversation she'd had with Paul when he realized she was taking the pill. He became immovable. There was no reasoning with him, but then, she hadn't realized it at the time, perhaps he'd already moved on.

*

Grace could feel that dark shadow tighten its grip about her. This time she knew she couldn't hang around. Delilah needed her and there was no-one else to fall back on if she ended up like she had when Delilah was a baby. It was completely different to when her mother had taken sedatives and painkillers to take the edge off. Alice Moylan was nothing like the old family doctor who'd worn faded tweeds and smoked a pipe during his consultations. Alice could perfectly understand the situation: ‘You wouldn't believe the number of women who take these,' she said, smiling a little lopsidedly. ‘How do you think most of us get through our first divorce? Actually, I've even had a woman start taking them before her wedding.' Grace doubted she'd get past breakfast without them. If that made her uneasy, it was something that she could put to the back of her mind. She could not go to pieces now; she had to be strong for Delilah. ‘I'm increasing the dose. You'll find they'll help you to cope better. Take them for a while, at least.'

‘I probably don't even need them,' Grace said as she tucked the script firmly into her bag. ‘It's a bit like smoking, isn't it? Once you know you have them near at hand...' She laughed a little nervously, and thanked her lucky stars that Alice hadn't asked too much about Paul.

‘There's nothing wrong with taking them if you need them, Grace.' Alice told her once, after Delilah was born, that there was no shame in depression. Grace didn't like labels, but when Paul left her, she could feel the darkness overtake her like a misty shadow, cloaking and choking her a little more every moment. ‘When you need something, you need it,' Alice said, so many times that Grace had started to say it too. This time she wasn't so sure she would get through what lay ahead without increasing them again. The thought scared her. If nothing else, she was beginning to understand her mother a little better.

Her second stop was at the studio. She wasn't dressed for work, and couldn't do any even if she wanted to. All she would be capable of creating was something desolate and grotesque. Instead, she switched on the kettle and uncovered some of her brighter canvases: a juggler on Grafton Street, a flock of swans rising from the murky depths of the Liffey and a smiling posy of dog daisies. The blaze of golden yellow, white and green on a sun-scorched afternoon might have brought a smile to her lips on a different day. The thought that they were all more than four years old made her feel a little sad, but still, it was better than looking at her more recent work. She sat back with a large mug of tea – black. Buying milk hadn't been high on her agenda for the last couple of days. She hardly heard her phone ring, but then suddenly it seemed so loud that she couldn't ignore it anymore.