The Better Woman (34 page)

‘And what do you do to earn a bob?'

Sarah mumbled something about working in a bank. He seemed satisfied and began to talk about himself.

‘I do this taxi driving at night only. I work as a mechanic during the day. I don't do it for the money, you know. I like meeting people, talking to them – beats having your head stuck under a car all day.'

He was very approving as he drove through her neighbourhood.

‘Nice area, this.'

She asked him to pull in outside her house. She saw his lips blow a soundless whistle as he sized it up.

‘Renting?'

‘No,' she replied abruptly and handed him a ten pound note.

She got out of the taxi before he had the gall to ask how much she'd paid for it. What if she told him she owned six such houses in Dublin? That whenever she felt unsettled or unfulfilled, she would go out and buy another? Some she renovated and sold on, others she retained for investment purposes. She could live quite comfortably off the rental income if she so desired. She laughed to herself at what the nosey taxi driver might make of all that.

Swinging the wrought-iron gate inwards, she walked up the short path to the house. It had a pretty little garden that she never
took time to appreciate. A man came round every fortnight to cut the grass and weed the flowerbeds. She left his money under the mat. When she came home from work, the money was gone, trimmed edges and the sweet smell of fresh grass in its place.

She turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy door inwards. In the darkness of the hallway she saw the red flashing from her answering machine. She flicked on the lights and walked over to play her messages.

Hi, Sarah.
Nuala's chirpy voice filled the silent hallway.
I'll be in Dublin on Friday. Just wondering if you're free for lunch. I have some news to tell you. Give me a ring as soon as you get this.

Sarah's ears perked up. What news? Surely Nuala wasn't pregnant again. Pity it was too late to phone her back.

The machine went on to a second message.

Hi. It's me, Emma. Just wanted a chat. Jason's away on business. Maybe you could pop over? That's if you get the message, of course.

Jason, Emma's boyfriend, travelled a lot and she hated being alone in the house. Sarah often slept over in her spare room. She made a mental note to call Emma in the morning to arrange something.

Sarah went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She drank it back and filled the glass again. Then she trawled up the stairs, yawning on the way. In the bathroom, she removed her make-up with a soft cotton pad and brushed her teeth. The mirror above the basin was harsh. It showed one or two grey hairs along her parting and tension lines around her eyes. Patsy's words of warning rang in her head.

‘
You look like the slightest thing would push you over the edge
...'

Slowly, thoughtfully, Sarah moved away from the telltale mirror. She undressed and slipped into her most comfortable cotton pyjamas.

The sheets of her bed felt cold and unwelcoming. She began her breathing exercises. One, two, three . . .

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Her body had all the physical signs of tiredness: compulsive yawns, aching feet and leaden arms. But her mind was despairingly alert.

Is there anywhere close by that does yoga classes?

I wonder what Nuala's news is about!

How do I feel about Tim coming back to live in Ireland?

The new year was rung in, winter gave way to spring, and then spring to early summer. Sarah's sleeping worsened. She was too cold, too hot, too anxious, or simply too sad to sleep. She was always tired, though. Bone tired. So tired that she could barely get out of bed in the mornings.

‘You need a holiday,' Eric urged.

Fine for him to offer advice in that fatherly tone of his, but how? When? Who with? The logistics of organising time off were overwhelming. So Sarah continued on. She worked hard. She ran hard. She tried to control her thoughts. But her mind and her body did not respond; her coping strategies were simply not working.

One day, when Tim had been back in Ireland for five months and Sarah was at an all-time low, he phoned and offered a lifeline.

‘You don't sound yourself,' he commented when he heard her voice.

‘I'm not feeling very well,' she admitted. ‘I'm tired. Everyone tells me I need a holiday.'

She didn't tell him that the blackness, which she had kept at bay for so long, had crept back into her life. Sapping her energy, gnawing at her confidence, making happiness seem like a
privilege only others could enjoy – like Nuala, who was expecting another baby, and Emma, who had got engaged to Jason.

‘Come down to the farm,' Tim suggested. ‘I haven't seen you since I got back.'

‘It's not that easy.'

‘Come on! It would do you the world of good. The fresh air, the smell of shite –' He laughed. ‘The ridiculous sight of me in overalls and wellies . . .'

It wasn't easy but it made sense. A lot of sense.

The next day Sarah announced that she was taking a week off. She handed over the reins to one of the managing directors. His name was Leo Carmichael. He was experienced, reliable and terribly ambitious.

‘Where are you going on your break?' he asked.

‘To a farm down in Cork.'

‘Oh.'

He was perplexed. Why Cork when you had the means to go to Tahiti or Mauritius or somewhere else similarly exotic?

Sarah didn't try to explain it; she simply focused on telling him what he needed to do to hold the fort while she was away.

She set off straight from work on Friday. It was a slow run out of Dublin. There seemed to be no accident or any other good reason for the hold-up, just too many cars on the road.

Sarah changed the channel on her radio. She knew some of the words of the song, ‘Don't Speak', but didn't know the name of the singer.

You're so out of touch
, she sneered at herself.

She was ridiculously nervous about seeing Tim. It was one thing catching up in New York, with both of them dressed in business attire and using work talk to gloss over any awkward moments. This was an entirely different prospect: jeans and
baggy jumpers, real conversation, in fact very like their college years.

Tim will never equate you to the girl he knew in college.

Sarah wound down the window and a warm breeze floated through the car. People were saying that it was shaping up to be a good summer; she had been indoors so much that she hadn't noticed until now.

Finally, she got through the set of lights that were causing all the trouble and she was able to make some progress. As the speed of the car picked up, so did her spirits.

Stop expecting the worst of Tim – of everything. Think positive!

Three hours later, as night was closing in, she passed the sign that read,
Welcome to Cork
. Just another couple of small towns to pass through and she'd be there. She was looking forward to getting out of the car. She hadn't stopped along the way and now her lower back was aching from sitting in the one spot for too long.

Tim's family farm was in a country area a short drive from the end of the motorway. Sarah had been there a few times before, many years ago. She drove along the spindly road and kept her eyes peeled for the white-walled entrance to the property. She reached an unfamiliar T-junction.

Damn! I must have gone too far
.

She turned around and drove slowly back along the road. Perhaps the outside wall had been painted. She re-examined every entrance. None of them, even accounting for the possibility of a different shade of paint, looked vaguely familiar.

She gave herself a stern lecture on staying calm.

It can't be far. No need to panic.

Easier said than done! Panic seemed only a hair's breadth away these days.

She pulled into the gateway of a field to give herself time to think.

I wish I'd brought my mobile phone with me . . . But if I had, I wouldn't be able to get away from work . . . I guess I can knock on someone's door and ask to use the phone . . . Embarrassing – but not the end of the world – no need to panic!

She was preparing to pull back out of the gateway when a tractor trundled round the corner. Its headlights shone straight through her car before it passed by. It came to a stop a few metres down the road. The driver switched on the hazard lights and his shadowy figure hopped down from the cabin.

The face that appeared at her window was weather-beaten and concerned.

‘Are ya all right there?' he shouted through the glass, spittle on his cracked lips.

Sarah wound down the window. ‘Just a little lost,' she said meekly.

‘Where are ya going?'

‘The Brennans' place.'

The farmer straightened. She noticed a length of twine tied around his waist like a belt.

‘Ah, sure, you're on the wrong road altogether.'

‘Oh.'

‘You should have turned right off the Old Glanmire Road.'

‘Oh.'

He scratched his head as he pondered the problem. ‘Sure, I'm in no rush. Drive along behind me and I'll show you the way.'

‘Thanks.'

Sheepishly, she put the car into gear and swung it around so it was tailing the tractor. Off they set, going no more than twenty kilometres an hour.

At this rate, Tim will have a search party out for me.

A number of kilometres and turn-offs later, the tractor slowed and flashed his hazard lights to indicate they'd reached their destination. Sarah would have never found it on her own and, to thank the farmer, she flashed her hazards in return.

Her wheels crunched along the gravel of the driveway. She felt her heart begin to hammer. God, she was so nervous! And still panicky after getting lost. Not a good combination.

The front door of the house opened as she pulled up outside. Tim's silhouette appeared, an arm raised in welcome. Sarah turned off the ignition, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and opened the car door.

‘I thought you'd got lost,' was his greeting.

‘I did,' she replied.

There was a pause as they looked at each other to assess how they'd changed since they'd last met. Tim looked well. He wore a bulky grey sweater and denims. Dark stubble covered his lower face. The rugged look suited him. It reminded Sarah of their college days, long before EquiBank and designer suits.

She feared, though, that she wouldn't come off as well in his assessment. That he'd see the lines in the corners of her hazel eyes, the few stubborn greys in her hair, and the sadness she carried inside.

Tim stepped forward, the gravel grating underfoot, and Sarah found herself embraced in a warm hug. It lasted long enough for her to know that he was very happy to see her, regardless of how she looked. Then he dropped his arms away, exposed her to the suddenly cool night air, and got down to the business of moving her in.

‘Pop the boot open and I'll get your bags.'

‘I've put you upstairs at the back of the house.'

‘The bathroom is across the way.'

‘I have some dinner ready downstairs. Hope you're hungry.'

The house, despite its stark stone exterior, was newly renovated on the inside. The kitchen had modern appliances and a top-of-the-range benchtop. New furnishings and fresh paint had transformed the bedrooms upstairs.

‘You've made a really good job of it,' Sarah commented as he showed her around.

The renovations had not only modernised the house but had also capitalised on its character. The kitchen's hanging saucepans and oversized fireplace testified that it was still a farmhouse at heart.

‘Don't you miss the penthouse?' she asked when they sat down to dinner.

‘A little,' he replied with a shrug. ‘But Manhattan never felt like home. This does.'

His words struck a chord with Sarah. She owned six houses but not one of them felt like home.

‘You're lucky to have had all this waiting for you while you were away seeking your fortune,' she said with a smile.

He smiled too. Then he raised his glass. ‘Cheers. To old friends – and new beginnings.'

‘Cheers,' she echoed.

Their glasses clinked. Their eyes locked.

He spoke in a voice soft with innuendo, ‘Right now I'm very glad that I made the decision to come back.'

Sarah held his gaze for a few excruciating moments before breaking away. Although food was about the furthest thing from her mind, she began to cut the meat on her plate. It was surprisingly tender and came away easily onto her fork. She looked closer at the contents of her plate: thin slices of beef and
char-grilled vegetables, surrounded by a red wine sauce.

‘Well,' she declared, having chewed her first mouthful, ‘since when did you learn how to cook like this? I seem to remember that pasta was the extent of your capabilities when I lived with you in New York.'

His eyes stared through her, not fooled by her avoidance tactics.

But still he answered, ‘I dated a master chef a while back. She taught me some basics.'

‘Oh.'

Jealousy bittered the taste in her mouth. Obviously Tim had dated many girls over the years, just as she'd dated countless faceless men. Had this master chef been someone special to him? Had they spent hours cuddling and laughing in the kitchen as she'd taught him elementary cooking?

‘No, Sarah. She wasn't special.'

Sarah felt her face blush with colour.

She began to worry that this was all a very bad idea: alone with Tim on this isolated farm; nowhere to run to hide her feelings, whatever they were; on tenterhooks that he would break down her defences. So much for rest and relaxation!

Sarah drank her first glass of wine rather quickly and the alcohol helped ease her edginess. And the food went some way to filling the emptiness she felt inside. The conversation, after the rocky start, veered to safer topics: what mutual friends were doing; Tim's impressions of Ireland after being away for such a long time; Sarah's career, as Tim didn't have one to speak of these days.