Semi-Sweet (20 page)

And when she had finished playing, he stood and walked toward her, and she laid her clarinet on the chair and smiled and opened
her arms to him, hair streaming around her pale, pale face.

“Thank you,” he said, climbing the steps and pulling her to him, hands sinking into her hair as his mouth found hers, as his
tongue eased her thin lips apart.

John Wyatt sprinkled brown sugar and splashed milk onto his porridge and ate it standing by the window as he always did in
the morning. He liked that his third-floor flat had a view of Clongarvin’s main street, even if the traffic at night had taken
some getting used to after the peace of Kerrycroy, the tiny coastal village where he’d spent most of his life. Now that he
was sleeping through the night again, he was able to appreciate his central location, his bird’s-eye view of the comings and
goings of Clongarvin’s residents, especially first thing in the morning.

Today was Friday. He should finish the kitchen cabinets for Carlton Road by lunchtime, if he put his mind to it, and then
he’d head across town to check out a new inquiry. He was lucky to have anyone showing any interest, with the recession as
bad as it was. Hopefully he’d manage to keep body and soul together until he’d built up enough of a business to relax a bit.

The gigs helped, of course—and that was thanks to Wally, whose cousin Patsy stood behind the counter in the woodworking store
where John bought most of his supplies. Funny how things turned out: a chance remark one day about the fact that he played
the sax and Patsy was saying,
Oh, you should meet my cousins, they’re in a band.
And before you knew it, John was practicing with Small Change, and then they were playing in the newly opened Vintage every
Saturday night, which helped with the rent on this place and on the tiny workshop he’d found by the river.

He took another spoonful of porridge and watched the early-morning bustle in the street below. A man sprinted toward a red
van that was causing an obstruction, waving apologetically at the driver in the car behind it before climbing in and moving
off. A woman in a green jacket walked slowly past a shoe-shop window, her relaxed pace contrasting with the scurry of the
people around her. A bus pulled in to a stop, engine chugging as the straggle of waiting passengers disappeared inside.

I’m leaving,
he’d told Lara, and she’d shown no surprise. The only surprise, maybe, that he’d waited so long. Nineteen years in a marriage
that should never have taken place, that had been entered into when they were both too young to listen to anyone’s advice.

And eight months after the wedding, when both of them had already realized their mistake, Danielle had turned them into a
family—Lara unknowingly pregnant as they’d walked down the aisle—and there was no leaving then, no grounds for walking out,
because lack of love wasn’t enough, was it, when a child was part of the picture?

No animosity on either part, no harsh words, no bitter quarreling between them. But no romantic love either, the initial fierce
blaze extinguishing itself almost as quickly as it had ignited, leaving behind a friendship, you could call it, but without
any deep warmth or feeling. Nothing to have you rushing home in the evenings, nothing to have you aching for the other’s touch.
They tolerated each other amicably, was the best you could say.

And occasionally, when loneliness caused him to reach out to Lara in the night, she responded, but it was an empty, mechanical
coupling that left him even more bereft, if anything.

Danielle helped. The poor girl had held them together for years. It had been harder, much harder, to tell her.
Your mother and I are separating,
John had said.
Nothing has happened, we haven’t fallen out, there’s nobody else involved. We just feel there’s no point in staying together
anymore.

Now that I’m moving out, you mean,
Danielle had replied. Her expression had been difficult to read, her feelings kept to herself, as they always had been, even
when she was a young child.

We’ve decided it’s best,
John had told her.
I’m going to Ireland for a while. I think a change of scene might be good. I’ll be back as often as I can to see you.

It was okay, he told himself. With Danielle starting college in Edinburgh, there would have been a parting anyway; they’d
have been separated for weeks at a time.

It’s a change,
he’d said,
that’s all. You’re still as important to both of us as you always were.

They’d still meet, either in Edinburgh or at his parents’ house on Bute whenever both of them could make it back there. They’d
be like so many other separated families across the world, living under different roofs most of the time, seeing each other
when they could.

But of course something had been lost between father and daughter, something John had sacrificed by choosing to leave the
family home, and he mourned it bitterly. Danielle had always been closer to Lara; he supposed it was inevitable with mothers
and daughters.

He’d gone back twice. He’d met Danielle as planned, and they’d spent Boxing Day together at his parents’ house. Danielle had
talked quite cheerfully about college; she seemed to be enjoying it. She’d cut her hair, which John had privately mourned,
and she’d grown thinner, which he didn’t approve of either. He’d teased her about boyfriends, and she’d laughed and given
nothing away, as ever. They’d had a good day.

But all the same, something was lost, and they both knew it.
You might come to Ireland in the spring,
he’d said to her.
I’m in a nice little town. You could stay a week in the holidays.
And Danielle had said,
Maybe,
but nothing had been fixed and no more had been said.

A couple walked hand in hand down the street, a rolled-up newspaper tucked under the strap of the man’s briefcase, an umbrella
swinging from the woman’s free hand. It was hard to be sure from this distance, but John put them in their twenties.

Hannah Robinson was in her late twenties or early thirties. Maybe a decade younger than his thirty-eight. Her skin was beautifully
fresh, like a young girl’s, but her body was all womanly curves, the same solid build as her mother. Her eyes were the color
of early-morning sea, and her hair was dark and wavy.

He’d acted too soon. He should have dropped in to the shop a few more times, maybe worked music into a conversation. He could
have mentioned the gig in Vintage and suggested casually that she stop by some Saturday night. He’d been too impatient, and
she’d turned him down.

But at least he knew she was unattached, even if she wasn’t over her ex. Unless, of course, the ex was someone she’d made
up to let him down gently. All the games people played…he’d forgotten the games. He had no time for games.

He finished his porridge and left his bowl in the sink, on top of last night’s dinner dishes. He brushed his teeth and grabbed
his keys. He left the small flat and took the stairs two at a time, as he always did.

Busy. Keep busy.

Alice stood at the cooker and waited for the eggs to boil. She didn’t feel a bit like eating—she was deathly tired, and her
stomach wasn’t the best—and neither, she was sure, did Tom, but they had to eat something if they were to put down a day’s
work.

She’d opened the sitting-room door when she’d come downstairs and said, “Tom, time to get up,” loudly. She’d repeated it,
and he’d grunted. She’d crossed the room and yanked the curtains open and turned to him, sprawled on the couch.

“Get up,” she’d said, “or you’ll be late. I have breakfast on.” She’d left the door open and gone into the kitchen, and a
few minutes later, when she’d been on the point of going in again, she’d heard him plodding upstairs.

Now she spooned the eggs out of the bubbling water and set them into eggcups, and as she brought them to the table, the kitchen
door opened and Tom walked in. His face was waxen, and he looked exhausted, but he’d shaved and put on a tie.

“Your egg is ready,” she said, setting it at his place.

He pulled out a chair and sat heavily. “Is there tea in the pot?”

She poured for him. She cut brown bread and arranged the slices on a plate in the middle of the table.

Underneath his eyes there were heavy pouches. She supposed they must have been there for a while, but this was the first time
she’d taken notice of them. He’d cut himself shaving—a fragment of tissue he’d stuck on the cut was red in the middle.

“I can drive, if you like,” Alice said. “I could leave the car at the clinic and walk back to the shop.” She’d be late, but
she could phone Geraldine on the way to let her know. Geraldine had often opened up; she had her own set of keys. “Or I could
park at the shop and you could walk the rest.” The fresh air might do him good, put a bit of color in his cheeks.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve slept it off.” He poured milk into his cup and drank thirstily. He ignored his egg and took no
bread. “I overdid it a bit last night,” he said.

Alice made no response. She couldn’t contradict him, but this wasn’t the time to talk about it. “I was thinking we might go
out for an early bird this evening,” she said. “I could meet you in town after work. We could go to Giovanni’s, save the cooking.”

He probably wouldn’t feel like drinking this evening. They could have a quiet chat maybe, in neutral surroundings. She topped
up his tea.

“I don’t think I’d be up to going out,” he said, watching the tea as it flowed into his cup. “I’ll get a takeaway if you don’t
feel like cooking.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just a thought.”

The morning air was sliced with frost. The car was cold. Tom turned the heater on full, and the fan whirred loudly, drowning
the radio. Alice pulled her coat tightly around her and clicked her seat belt into place, and rubbed her hands together. She
kept forgetting her gloves, in the drawer of the hall stand. She should leave them out where she’d see them.

Tom reversed out of the driveway—too fast, it seemed to Alice, but again she held her tongue. The road glittered, and the
paths on either side were full of children and mothers on their way to school. They turned onto Carbert Road, and Alice made
a list in her head for a lunchtime shopping: milk, toothpaste, washing-up liquid, eggs, nail-varnish remover. Something else
she couldn’t think of.

“Do you need anything?” she asked Tom. “I have to go to the supermarket at lunchtime.”

“No,” he said, and just then she remembered: batteries for the remote control.

The air in the car got marginally warmer, and Alice turned the heater down a couple of notches, and the radio became audible
again in the middle of someone’s sentence: “…causing a tailback from the Red Cow Roundabout.”

She was glad they didn’t have a long commute every morning. On a quiet day, the drive to the shop took ten minutes, and even
in the heaviest traffic it was still well under half an hour.

Afterward, trying to remember the sequence of events— because she kept trying to remember, she couldn’t stop trying to remember—all
she could see was the color of his jacket. All that was there, when she sent her mind back to the minutes leading up to the
accident, was the small, bright blue patch of his jacket, the flash of bright blue that was suddenly there, suddenly, sickeningly,
there
in front of the car, and she shouted something—Tom’s name? something else?—and she was thrust against her seat belt, she
felt the tug of the strap across her body, the nylon taut against the side of her neck, her hands flying out to smack against
the dashboard, the blue gone, no more blue now, and the thump as she was flung back against her seat, as the car skidded to
a stop, swerving in an arc across the road,
no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
unable to stop repeating it,
no, no, no,
her fists beating against her thighs,
no,
her head shaking from side to side,
no, no,
pulling at her seat belt, struggling to get it off,
no,
and someone screaming and screaming, and people running and shouting and crying, and Alice still repeating
no, no, no,
the blue hidden now behind all the other colors, the reds and the purples and the browns,
no, no,
and at some stage the new, shrill scream of a siren, and doors opening and closing, and her door opening, and someone unbuckling
her seat belt, and someone slapping her face, slapping it hard, the new shock jolting her into silence, her words stopped,
her mouth gaping dumbly, her whole body shaking violently as she was helped from the car, guided toward the open doors of
an ambulance, clutching at the hands that supported her, a blanket wrapped around her, the smell of wool and antiseptic as
she was hoisted up into the ambulance, and all the time the screaming, someone shrieking, voices shouting—and stretching her
arms toward Tom, the blanket dropping off her shoulders as he put something, the end of a stick, a pipe, into his mouth, Tom’s
face so white, the man beside him laying a dark blue arm on Tom’s shoulders as Tom’s cheeks puffed out and turned pink, as
he took the stick from his mouth and the man took the stick from Tom and looked at it, his arm still on Tom’s shoulders, his
fingers curved around them, and everything was sharp and hard, and a man was talking to her, she could see his mouth moving,
but the words made no sound, as the blanket was wrapped around her again, as she was eased down onto the trolley in the ambulance,
as her handbag appeared on the floor beside her, and when she looked toward Tom again, he was gone, and she wanted to ask
for him, she wanted to call out for him, but the words made no sound—