Becky is probably back in New Zealand by n ow, anyway. She was only over for a visit. I must cook Diarmuid a lovely meal – big fat steaks and broccoli and chips, his favourite – and get in a big box of Turkish Delight. I can’t believe how patient and understanding he’s been. It’s high time I appreciated him more. I was so relieved to marry him. I don’t know why I’ve allowed myself to have these doubts. Being single was so lonely.
Out of nowhere I think of Nathaniel, the beautiful blue-eyed stranger, but this time I don’t feel a pang of regret. He’s just a nice memory that floats back into my head every so often.
My mobile rings just as I’m lifting the cup to my lips. Feck it, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if it really is an advantage to be quite so accessible. I consider leaving it in my bag, but I realise it could be Diarmuid. I really want to speak to Diarmuid. He hasn’t phoned for days because he’s studying for exams. I hope he does well.
‘Sally, you have to stop asking Marie about DeeDee.’ It isn’t Diarmuid; it’s April. She feels no need to build up to a subject gradually.
‘How do you know I’ve been asking her about DeeDee?’ I frown. I also sit up straight and clench an armrest.
‘She told me when she rang yesterday. She was wondering whether she should change the date of the party so I could be there, but I told her I was fully booked up for the whole of September. I told her there were weddings and very important meetings and, of course, the conference.’
‘I see.’ April is a very good liar. She does it with real conviction.
‘Anyway, I got into her good books by saying I’d tell you to stop asking her about DeeDee. She brought it up because she knows I agree with her about things like that. There’s no point poking around in the past.’
‘But this is the present,’ I say, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. ‘If DeeDee’s alive, we could meet her now. ’
‘Why should we want to?’ April asks, and for a moment I almost agree with her. Her minimalist view of life sometimes seems like a restful contrast to my own.
‘Aggie wants to meet her before she…’ I can’t bear to say ‘dies’, so I say, ‘It’s understandable, isn’t it – wanting to see your sister again?’
April doesn’t answer that. There are times when we talk when I could burst into tears. Instead she says, ‘So how are you, anyway? Are you dating again?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I splutter. ‘Of course I’m not dating again. I’m married.’
‘I think you should date again. It would get you out of yourself.’ April has clearly formed the opinion that I am an introspective, miserable person who spends her spare time hunting for music boxes in attics.
‘Look, I don’t want to date anyone, OK?’ I say fiercely. ‘I’ll probably go back to Diarmuid, but if I stay single, I… I want to keep loads of cats and… spend the weekends haring around the countryside on my mountain bike.’ I hope this extravagant declaration will silence her.
It doesn’t. She just laughs and says, ‘Oh, you are funny sometimes.’
‘I mean it!’ I spit.
‘Oh, come on. You’re not a mountain-bike type of person,’ she g iggles. ‘Anyway, I’d better go; I’ve got a meeting. Talk to you soon.’ The line goes dead.
I sit there for a while in a sort of trance. Sometimes April’s phone calls feel like ambushes. They make me say strange things. No wonder she thinks I’m not a mountain-bike kind of person; she was too small to remember that there was a time when I wanted a mountain bike with all my soul. My best friend Astrid had one. It was about freedom and adventure. A mountain bike seemed like a window to a whole new world. The Wild West is still wild, despite its veneer of civility, and I was wild too – wild in my heart.
But Mum and Dad just didn’t like the idea of the mountain bike. They didn’t want their well-behaved, pigtailed daughter taking
Out of nowhere I think of Nathaniel, the beautiful blue-eyed stranger, but this time I don’t feel a pang of regret. He’s just a nice memory that floats back into my head every so often.
My mobile rings just as I’m lifting the cup to my lips. Feck it, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if it really is an advantage to be quite so accessible. I consider leaving it in my bag, but I realise it could be Diarmuid. I really want to speak to Diarmuid. He hasn’t phoned for days because he’s studying for exams. I hope he does well.
‘Sally, you have to stop asking Marie about DeeDee.’ It isn’t Diarmuid; it’s April. She feels no need to build up to a subject gradually.
‘How do you know I’ve been asking her about DeeDee?’ I frown. I also sit up straight and clench an armrest.
‘She told me when she rang yesterday. She was wondering whether she should change the date of the party so I could be there, but I told her I was fully booked up for the whole of September. I told her there were weddings and very important meetings and, of course, the conference.’
‘I see.’ April is a very good liar. She does it with real conviction.
‘Anyway, I got into her good books by saying I’d tell you to stop asking her about DeeDee. She brought it up because she knows I agree with her about things like that. There’s no point poking around in the past.’
‘But this is the present,’ I say, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. ‘If DeeDee’s alive, we could meet her now. ’
‘Why should we want to?’ April asks, and for a moment I almost agree with her. Her minimalist view of life sometimes seems like a restful contrast to my own.
‘Aggie wants to meet her before she…’ I can’t bear to say ‘dies’, so I say, ‘It’s understandable, isn’t it – wanting to see your sister again?’
April doesn’t answer that. There are times when we talk when I could burst into tears. Instead she says, ‘So how are you, anyway? Are you dating again?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I splutter. ‘Of course I’m not dating again. I’m married.’
‘I think you should date again. It would get you out of yourself.’ April has clearly formed the opinion that I am an introspective, miserable person who spends her spare time hunting for music boxes in attics.
‘Look, I don’t want to date anyone, OK?’ I say fiercely. ‘I’ll probably go back to Diarmuid, but if I stay single, I… I want to keep loads of cats and… spend the weekends haring around the countryside on my mountain bike.’ I hope this extravagant declaration will silence her.
It doesn’t. She just laughs and says, ‘Oh, you are funny sometimes.’
‘I mean it!’ I spit.
‘Oh, come on. You’re not a mountain-bike type of person,’ she g iggles. ‘Anyway, I’d better go; I’ve got a meeting. Talk to you soon.’ The line goes dead.
I sit there for a while in a sort of trance. Sometimes April’s phone calls feel like ambushes. They make me say strange things. No wonder she thinks I’m not a mountain-bike kind of person; she was too small to remember that there was a time when I wanted a mountain bike with all my soul. My best friend Astrid had one. It was about freedom and adventure. A mountain bike seemed like a window to a whole new world. The Wild West is still wild, despite its veneer of civility, and I was wild too – wild in my heart.
But Mum and Dad just didn’t like the idea of the mountain bike. They didn’t want their well-behaved, pigtailed daughter taking
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