My Husband's Wives (2 page)

‘Fair to say he's not gay – he's married.' Patrick glanced at her over his low-slung reading glasses.

‘He could still be gay. This is Dublin after all – he could be gay and quiet about it.'

‘Well, he's not, but if you have a shred of decency, you'll leave the poor man alone. I'm all for you finding a man, preferably not one I find attractive, but you need to get one of your own, not one who's already married to someone else.'

‘He's quite safe. I'm not looking for anyone, just happy to paint and have you keep selling for me.' She held her hands up, ‘Honest.' It was true. She wanted to crack the American market. Patrick called her ambitious, and yes, she supposed, she was driven, and she didn't want to be slowed down by kids or a husband – especially if he was someone else's.

She lost sight of him then, for a while. Assumed he'd left like anyone who wasn't there just for the champagne. It was in the foyer that she spotted him again. He was waiting, probably for a taxi.

‘You're working late?' His body skimmed hers too close; his expression was mischievous.

‘Work hard, play hard,' she whispered, matching the challenge in his eyes. It must have been the champagne. In that moment, she left her normal sensible self behind, leant across and brushed her lips on his, for too long so it was not just friendly. The kiss, if you could call it that, a fleeting-lingering-caress, boiled a wanton question between them. His look of surprise matched the hysteria erupting in her heart, but she had a feeling that alcohol helped her hide it better. She turned on her high heels. She heard them clicking on the stone floor beneath her and slinked, tiger-like, away from him. She could feel him watch her, take in her every fibre as she moved, and she revelled in it. She'd never felt more in control; in that moment she had become all she'd wanted to be. Then the familiar fear threated to rise within her. Kissing someone she didn't even know, and like that? Someone else's husband? She never felt more… she couldn't articulate it, and she was far too happy to try.

*

The following morning, nursing a thumping hangover, she walked across the city towards her studio to the drumbeat of her headache. Alongside her, cars snaked through the worn-out city streets. The Liffey twisted tediously beneath the grey of the Ha'penny Bridge and anonymous footsteps rattled its surface like unrelenting raindrops. Dublin has its own way of reminding you that you were only passing through. Still, deep in her heart throbbed an excitement she'd never known before and even her hangover couldn't dampen the glimmer of hope that had ignited within her.

She had bought the studio with the proceeds of her first exhibition – it was technically a lock-up garage in the Liberties. It snuggled between the Iveagh market and a raft of antique shops that she had a feeling started out as pawnbrokers long before vintage was fashionable. This was old Dublin, the valley of the Vikings, the birthplace of Walt Disney, a red-bricked ravine – the heart of the fair city. Grace loved it here. It was an odd mix of old buildings and new blood and, above it all, Christchurch pealed its three-hundred-year-old bells over her rooftop. In the beginning, the studio had been little more than a draughty shell with a rotting double garage door. That didn't matter; it was hers, and once the builders left her to it, with a row of Velux windows and a small kitchenette and bathroom, it felt more like home than the dingy flat she rented on the far side of the river.

Patrick was an angel. A hair-gelled, smoking-jacketed, cravat-wearing angel. Even today, when Grace just about managed to crawl into a pair of paint-spattered leggings, Patrick looked immaculate.

‘So what's she like?'

‘Who?'

‘His wife, of course, Paul Starr's wife.' She couldn't get him out of her mind.

‘I don't know, do I?' Patrick was considering something on his fingernails as he held them up against the natural light. Getting information out of him was harder than winning the Eurovision. ‘Plain, I think, older, lives in a serious pile of real estate in Howth.'

‘Oh? Kids?'

‘What is this? Inquisition? Torture? Do you have any idea how much my head hurts?' He took the phone from its cradle beside him. ‘Why don't you ring him up and ask him?' Patrick put his hand to his forehead, pressing his palm hard to dispel the pounding headache. His breath was deep and slow – a sure sign of the hangover from hell.

‘I can't do that, can I?' Grace rolled her eyes at him. He replaced the phone on the cradle.

‘No, you definitely can't.' He grinned wryly.

‘He might actually want to buy something though? He mentioned a commission.' She knew she was clutching at straws, but she wanted to see him again.

‘You don't do commissions, not unless they have a hefty price tag – and we both know the only commission he's thinking about is getting into your…'

‘Stop it.' She pouted at him. ‘Those suits he was with last night, I bet they'd buy him the Mona Lisa if they thought it would entice him to work for them.' What were the chances of a sale in it? ‘I won't ring him. Maybe he'll buy a whole load from one of the other auction houses and then you'll be sorry that I didn't.'

‘He knows where we are if he wants to get his hands on a painting.' Patrick drained his coffee cup. ‘Must be off, sales to be made!' He rubbed his fingers together playfully, ‘I can't be discussing your non-love life all day.' He flicked a paintbrush against her hand, splattering her arm with a dusting of bright blue powder.

‘Thanks,' she said, staring into her coffee, still too busy remembering the flutter of her stomach when she kissed Paul Starr.

*

It took her almost two days, but she knew that if she didn't ring Paul Starr he could not ring her; not if he was married. He answered on the second ring and if he was surprised to hear from her, he hid it well enough to make her question what she thought he felt.

At four o'clock, she walked into the modern white and steel foyer of Liffey Hospital. A young receptionist, efficient and friendly, led her into Paul's office, an insipidly cream space crying out for adornment. He had been waiting for her, and they sat for a while making small talk about art and business, but really, she could hardly concentrate. He was even more attractive than she remembered.

‘You really do need a few paintings around here,' she said as they made their way to the café through a tunnel of endless naked walls and cream carpet designed to absorb bad news and good alike.

‘Well, maybe that's something you can help me with.' He held the door open for her. She couldn't manage eye contact.

They sat at a small table on a mezzanine overlooking a courtyard decorated with colourful shrubs, wooden furniture and a privet maze. In the polished glass of the window, she could see their reflections. They made a striking couple. Her dark hair and clothes edgy compared to his clean cut good looks.

‘I'm glad you called.' He ordered the coffees and leant across the table towards her. ‘I was afraid you wouldn't. I thought I might crack and ring you first; then I realised, I didn't have a number for you. You kissed me and then you ran away.' He smiled through a lopsided generous mouth that was much more used to being set in serious mode in these surroundings. ‘Of course, I couldn't.'

‘No?' Was it her imagination or did his wedding ring constantly wink in the afternoon sunlight?

‘I'm married. You must know that?' He broke their gaze, sadly looking down at the courtyard below. ‘Well,' he scrutinized her with those astute eyes. ‘Marriage? What does it mean anymore? Eh?'

‘Probably means a lot to your wife.' Grace sighed, sitting back a little in her seat.

‘It isn't straightforward.' He'd caught the fleeting look of resignation. ‘Seriously, it isn't what you think. Evie is much older. We've never had… a…' He took the milk jug, concentrated for a moment on pouring it. ‘We've never had a family, never had what you'd call a conventional marriage.'

‘She doesn't understand you?' Grace had dipped her voice, though she knew she shouldn't make light of it. He caught her eye, and it felt as if she'd missed a heartbeat and everything in the world had just toppled slightly. This was not funny, not funny at all.

‘She understands me perfectly, as it turns out. She recognizes what we have, and, well, she wants more for me. She has her life, I have mine. She understands how I feel about… things.'

‘So, she'd be happy with you, say, taking a mistress?'

‘I'm not sure that those are the words she'd use, but yes. Look, I don't expect you to understand this, but when you love someone, really love them, well, you want what will make them happy.'

‘And that's me?' Grace whispered the words. This was insane; they hardly knew each other.

‘You're looking at me as though I might be an escaped lunatic.' They both laughed at that. He shook his head, lowered his voice still further so it was little more than a whisper. ‘I told her that I met you.'

‘Excuse me?' Grace moved forward. This was not what she was expecting – what had she been expecting? That they might discuss the merits of charcoal over pencil? No, she should be honest with herself at least. She'd been expecting more than that. ‘You told your wife? That you met me?'

‘I had to, I couldn't move on without being honest with her. You don't just stop loving someone, not altogether. It may have changed, as the years have gone on, but I wouldn't hurt her for the world.'

‘And, meeting me, here, having this conversation, that wouldn't hurt her?'

‘No, she's ready for me to move on. She wants me to find happiness. She is very content with her life as it is. She has, if you'll excuse the old-fashioned way of putting it, given me her blessing.' He smiled at Grace, a winning smile; it was game, set and match to Paul Starr. ‘If you feel the same as I do.'

*

It didn't take long; he asked her to dinner a few nights later. The Trocadero, in the city centre, a public place. When she got back to the safety of her little flat, she danced about the cramped space to whatever mindless tune played on the radio. The next day, she headed for Switzers, blew a huge hole in her credit card and walked out the door with a sexy half-price Valentino blouse that left less to the imagination than it left in her wallet. She was falling for him, regardless of marriage, blessings or any other stupid notions that might be playing in the back of her mind.

‘You look beautiful, even more so than the first time I noticed you.' He all but fell inside her blouse as he was talking to her. It was a magical night. He was full of plans, dreams and ambitions. ‘And that,' he told her was half the problem with his marriage to Evie. ‘We're stuck, have been maybe since before we got married.'

‘My sisters are like that. They don't understand why I'm…' She inclined her head, knowing instinctively that he'd understand, ‘…the way I am.'

Four hours later, they walked around Stephen's Green. The city smelled of promise. Across the railings of the green, viola, stock and jasmine coasted on the night air. It seemed the moon shone orange and low in the silken empty sky, just for them, and the horses stood a little taller to attention as they passed. Somewhere down Grafton Street, a busker played his heart out for a love he had lost, or maybe never knew. And Paul looked at her with desire Grace had only ever expressed in her paintings. He'd leaned in to kiss her, and then stopped. She thought that she'd turn herself inside out with hunger for him. She managed to play it cool.

‘I have to see you again,' he whispered into her hair, his body skimming hers so she could feel the length of him against her.

‘I suppose, we might manage that.' She laughed at him then, enjoying the game. It was the same the next time and the time after that. If he wasn't being unfaithful exactly to Evie, he looked at Grace with more longing than any other man she'd ever known. Then, after five whirlwind months, when Grace had hardly eaten a bite apart from when she'd been with him, her whole body a knot of pent-up nerves and sexual tension, he'd rung her at the studio one afternoon.

‘I'm off to Paris at the weekend. Fancy it?' He said the words lightly, but they both knew what they implied.

‘What about…' first rule of affairs – don't mention the wife's name.

‘I thought it'd be something special, memorable for us.' She could swear she felt his breath warm and spicy on her hair.

‘Work or pleasure?'

‘I don't see why it can't be both.' He chuckled in a way that made him seem much older, worldly-wise. Patrick had told her that she was trying to replace her lost father. He was joking, she hoped.

‘Maybe I can get a little business done while I'm there too.'

As it turned out, she never took the sketchpad out of her bag. Paris had been wonderful. It truly was the city of love. It was as intoxicating as the connection between them and that ran far deeper than Grace had expected. Cemented by their shared sense of humour; they were anchored by voracious desire. Paul begged off the conference with food poisoning. A hackneyed excuse but, surprisingly, they bought it. They flew back on Sunday night, exhausted, but exuberant. Things had changed in Paris, and they both knew it.

Grace got home before midnight, oddly bereft at being without him. She did not want to leave him at the airport, and then it hit her that he was not hers; he still belonged to Evie. She climbed the four flights of stairs and cursed the Georgians for making people live in nests above the city. She lived alone. The only company she needed in the evenings were a remote control and a cat she called Moses that sometimes dropped by from the flat downstairs. She switched on the phone when she unpacked her weekend bag. One new message. She dialled the mailbox. It was her sister Anna – the middle one.

‘Grace, I'm sorry for leaving a message like this, but we've been looking for you since Friday night. It's Sunday morning now and we're getting really worried. Anyway, will you ring us the minute you get this message, it's about Ma.' Grace sat on the side of her cast-iron bed – a gift to herself. For once, its creaky welcome was lost on her. Hard to believe that only hours earlier she lay in his arms and all the world seemed right. She redialled the number on the call log.