The Truth Club (5 page)

‘And then we could go to a film,’ Diarmuid remarks.

‘What?’ For the first time in this conversation, I frown at him.

‘After dinner, we could go to a film… if you want.’

I can’t think about films and dinner, because I’m thinking
about Aunt Aggie. How she’ll say, ‘Oh, well, dear… come when
you can.’ How her voice will trail off sadly, despite her attempts
to sound as though it doesn’t matter. Despite the sheep who have
moved into her bedroom, it is still possible to have fairly normal
c
onversations with her sometimes. I love her. I’ve always loved
her. She’s been my ally and my friend for thirty-five years. I spent
countless hours at her house when I was younger. She seemed to relish my company; she always made time for me. Now I need to
make time for her. She won’t be around that much longer. Diarmuid should know that.

‘Have another biscuit.’ I shove the plate towards him, a little too roughly; it almost falls off the table, but he grabs it in time.

‘Are you going to phone her, then?’ he enquires. ‘I should probably ring the restaurant and book us a table.’

I look out the window at the sea moving around, going with the flow of things… changing. Then I turn towards my husband and, without knowing what I am about to say, tell him, ‘No.’

Diarmuid is clearly shocked. Ever since I left him, I’ve treated
him with great civility and slight subservience. It seemed the least
I could do for him, in the circumstances.

What I have come to realise is that this ‘time to think’ I have asked for is, in fact, something I should have asked for before I married. But, the minute the engagement was announced, I
somehow got completely caught up in the wedding and the dress
and the cake and the violin players. I fretted for days about who
should sit beside whom at the top table, when I should have been
asking myself if I truly loved Diarmuid – loved him enough to make these big promises to him. Because he is a good man, despite the mice. He is the kind of man many women would be happy to marry. I know this because I went out with a bunch of
right bastards before I met him. I can hardly count the number of
times I’ve been dumped by men who seemed so nice and sensitive
at first. This is one of the many reasons I should run to Diarmuid
right now and cling to him like a limpet. But, for some reason I still can’t quite explain to myself, I don’t.

The ‘No’ silences us both, and I begin to wonder if I should make him more tea. But, since this is clearly not doing much to keep the lines of communication open, I decide to venture onto the topic of advance notification.

‘The thing is, Diarmuid,’ I begin slowly, ‘I’d
love
to go to
dinner and a film with you… it’s just that I’ve made other plans.’

Diarmuid reaches for a biscuit and chomps it solemnly. They’re
his favourite brand. I buy them for him specially.

‘You see, the thing is’ – I know I’m saying ‘the thing is’ too often – ‘it would really help if you phoned beforehand. Then… then I wouldn’t make other arrangements.’

‘But you said you wanted me to be more spontaneous,’ he says,
too quickly.

‘Yes, but that was when we… we were sharing the same house.’
I decide not to mention all the evenings he spent closeted with the
mice and his textbooks in the spare room.

‘I didn’t realise you had such a busy social diary, Sally.’ There
is a distinct edge to Diarmuid’s voice, and his eyes have narrowed.
And I suddenly know what all this is about. These impromptu
visits aren’t just him being spontaneous; they are a way of
checking up on me. He wants to know if I’m seeing someone else.

‘I’m not seeing someone else.’

‘I never said you were.’

‘But you think I might be.’

‘I never said that.’

‘You never said it, but you suspect it. You don’t trust me.’

His jaw is clenched again, and he’s tapping a finger on the arm
of the sofa. ‘I don’t know what to suspect any more,’ he says.
‘Since you ran away, I just don’t know what to think about you.’

Diarmuid has never said I ‘ran away’ before. I shudder. It
makes me sound like DeeDee – and I don’t want to be like
DeeDee. I don’t want to break people’s hearts without caring, without even an explanation.

‘I didn’t run away, Diarmuid,’ I say. ‘I just needed time to think.’

‘About what?’ he demands, and I can hear the hidden anger. I
suddenly realise what an effort it must be for him to come here and be so nice and civil.

‘To think about us. About what it all means.’

He stands up. ‘Marriage isn’t a philosophy course, Sally.’ He doesn’t even try to hide his weariness. ‘Sometimes I think your sister is right: you analyse things too much. If people love each other, they just love each other.’ He sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.

I feel like crying. He knows how I feel about April. He knows that what he just said will hurt me. I don’t want him to leave like
this. I want him to keep wanting me.

I say something I know I shouldn’t. ‘I do love you, Diarmuid.’
It’s so easy to say those words; so seductive. ‘It’s just that…’

He turns away from me. This love I’m talking about no longer
impresses him. I almost race to the phone to ring Aunt Aggie, like
he wants me to. But his expression is so hard and aloof that it
seems pointless trying to soften him. He wants to know why I left
him and if I’m going to come back; he wants an explanation, and
I can’t give him one.

‘Tomorrow, Diarmuid… let’s go to that dinner and film tomorrow. I’d love that.’

‘I’ve got a lecture.’

‘The night after that, then.’

‘I’ll phone you tomorrow and we can discuss it,’ he says coldly.

Oh, dear. I just know that now he’ll really get into this advance
notice thing; he might just possibly bring around a wall chart. I look anxiously out the window as he gets into his old maroon Ford Fiesta. Diarmuid’s patience is wearing thin. I simply must make up my mind about our marriage soon.

I return to my advice about how people can transform their
bathrooms – not that I really care what they do to their bathrooms.
They could all go out and buy tin tubs and I wouldn’t care.

At last it’s ready, and I press the ‘Send’ button and stretch my
arms and lean back in my chair. The ceiling needs to be repainted.
There are so many things in this house that need to be repainted
or replaced or grouted. I wish builders used less technical words.
Talking to them is like trying to explain things to a computer help
desk. I just don’t know most of the terminology. Maybe love is like that too. Maybe you have to learn a whole new language.

I grab a quick supper – watercress and salami, with some
tomatoes and low-fat cheese; I feel very virtuous as I race out the
door. I feel rather less virtuous after I am lured into the
newsagent’s and buy myself a KitKat. I wonder if I should buy one for Aunt Aggie too, but I buy her mints instead. She’s very fond of mints.

As I wait for the bus, I think of Alex’s wife. I wonder if she knows that her husband has got quite so fond of Erika. Maybe
she’s turned to her yoga teacher for solace. Then I think of all the
poor women who find their husbands are being unfaithful, and
wonder how I could care so much about Diarmuid’s mice and the spermicidal cream and his spurious spontaneity. All husbands and wives must disagree sometimes. Surely the trick is to learn to talk
it out.

Sometimes, when you’re waiting at a bus stop, you get this feeling that the bus may never arrive and that you may be left
standing there for ever. I get that feeling now, so I distract myself
by thinking about DeeDee. I begin to wonder if DeeDee ran off
with another man’s wife. Maybe that’s why no one in the family
wants to speak about her. And maybe they’re right. Maybe she is best forgotten. As I begin to eat one of Aggie’s mints, I decide to forget DeeDee as well. After all this time, it would be impossible
to find her.

I remember Diarmuid’s expression as he left the house. Yes, we
really will have to visit that marriage counsellor again. As soon as
possible.

Chapter
Three

‘I want you to
find DeeDee.’ These are the first words Aunt
Aggie says to me – or seems to say to me; I must have
misheard her. I pull up a chair and sit beside her bed.

‘I want you to find DeeDee,’ she repeats, her big brown eyes shining. ‘I must see her.’

‘Why do you want me to find DeeDee?’ I can’t believe that
Aggie is talking about her lost sister – especially now, just when
I’ve begun to wonder about DeeDee myself. I sit on the edge of my seat, clutching my handbag, and wait for Aggie’s answer. I haven’t even taken off my navy linen jacket.

Aggie lies back on her plumped-up pillows. ‘Get those sheep out of here. They’re pissing all over the carpet.’

I make vague shooing gestures. Then I say, ‘Do you think
DeeDee is still in Ireland? Where do you think I should look
for her?’

Aggie looks at me sternly, so I stand up and wave my arms about. This is the routine required whenever the sheep get a bit
too boisterous. Then I sit down again and say, ‘If you want me to
find DeeDee, you’ll have to tell me more about her.’ I take Aggie’s
hand and squeeze it gently.

‘Rio de Janeiro,’ Aggie says. ‘She often said she wanted to go
there.’

‘Oh.’ This is a little farther than I had imagined.

‘And hats… she loved hats.’ Aggie’s eyes are too bright. She is
going to cry at any moment.

‘Anything else?’ I coax.

‘Marble cake. She liked that too.’ I know about the marble cake. As far as I remember, Aggie has only mentioned DeeDee once before. She had baked a marble cake, and the words just
slipped out: ‘This was DeeDee’s favourite.’ Then she stared into
the distance, and Mum and Marie said the cake was delicious. I
was fifteen and said the cake was delicious too. At the time I was
in love with a boy called Roy Bailey, who was the first decent
French kisser I had encountered. Absent relatives were of
absolutely no interest to me. I’m surprised I even remember these
meagre details.

‘She told no one where she was going. She just left us. Without
even a note.’ Tiny tears are trickling down Aggie’s cheeks.

I know I can’t press her more on the subject. She won’t be with us for much longer. Every time I visit her, I feel I might be saying
goodbye. She’s actually my great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister. Eighty-nine is a good age, of course; but I can’t get used to the idea of Aggie not being around any more.

‘I brought you some mints.’ I hand them to her, and she smiles
wanly. She is just lying back on her pillows and staring into the distance. Saying DeeDee’s name seems to have exhausted her. Perhaps she won’t mention her again. I wonder if I should start talking about Diarmuid and my happy marriage. That always cheers her up.

But Aggie has closed her eyes and appears to be dozing. I look
around. It’s a very plain room. The curtains are faded aubergine
and the carpet is navy. I am sitting on a fake leather armchair the
colour of over-boiled cabbage.

‘I don’t know where they come from,’ she murmurs.

‘Who?’