Let Them Lie, page 7
With this thought in mind, as soon as he finished on the phone, she asked, ‘Have you sent off the draft dissertation to Burke yet?’
She wished her words didn’t sound so accusatory. His guarded reply didn’t surprise her.
‘I just have a few things to iron out. It will be ready soon. He isn’t hassling me for it.’
Even though she knew this would not end well, she couldn’t stop herself.
‘But you promised you would get it handed in and out of the way. Look, the wedding is only a few months away and you promised to get the dissertation finished so that you could start earning. Bills are mounting up, as you know.’
As she said the words, she knew how things would go. It was by now an old script – what he would say, how she would reply, and how the evening would end. The play ran true to previous performances, with Connor accusing her of nagging, she accusing him of procrastinating, of just drifting along. He snarled at her that she was just like his family – only interested in money.
‘Perhaps you should marry James – he’s more your style, anything to make a fast buck!’
She shouted that he was being ridiculous. They finished by glaring at each other. The only change to the usual scenario was that he stormed off to bed, and she stayed in the living room and poured herself more wine. Usually, she felt sad and guilty after these rows, but tonight perversely she was glad of the distraction. She turned on the TV and watched a lion devouring an antelope. It brought up disturbing images in her mind of her father with the young woman in the shed. Sickened, she flicked channels and eventually settled on an old British war film.
After a couple of hours, she followed Connor to bed. As she snuggled up to him, his rigid back refused to soften even when she put her arms around him. She knew by his breathing that he wasn’t asleep, but not in a mood to forgive and forget.
Despite her exhaustion, it took a long time to drop off.
CHAPTER 9
School dragged for Aoife. The day pressed down hard and her tongue, heavy in her mouth, seemed swollen and useless. Her eyelids drooped, and she feared she would fall asleep if she closed them for longer than a blink. She glanced at the clock in the classroom: would the hands never move to end this relentless day? When the bell finally rang, instead of the expected relief, she felt only further lassitude. Desperate for school to end, yet reluctant to go home. She was too tired to face Connor and his hurt, too sick at heart to read more of her father’s terrifying outpourings.
Remaining here wasn’t an option. Already the cleaning staff was moving toward the classrooms to start their work. She looked at the discarded papers dropped on the floor, the knocked-over chairs and desks scarred with graffiti. What was the point of it all? The endless round of cleaning, and restoration of order to be followed by more mess and the casual, contemptuous littering of juveniles?
She dragged herself out of the room and visited the staffroom to retrieve her belongings. It was quiet, the only sound the photocopier and the rustle of papers. She called goodbye to the teachers who had remained behind, too absorbed in marking copies to reply.
The drive home was uneventful, with the usual traffic jam. She was too listless to listen to the radio and all the music on her phone was too upbeat for her flattened mood. Most evenings the thought of seeing Connor consoled her for the tedium of the homeward journey, but not this evening. The curtains were closed when she got home. So, he wasn’t in yet. She opened the fridge, made up a salad of her mam’s leftovers and fished out the remnants of last night’s pizza for their dinner.
As she was setting the table, she heard Connor’s key in the latch. He didn’t come into the kitchen but went straight to their bedroom. She put out the frugal meal and called him to come and eat.
In stilted tones, she asked about his day and he about hers. The silence made her ache.
‘Connor, I’m sorry about the row last night. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Didn’t you?
‘OK, so I’m practical, I’m worried about money, about paying bills, about buying our own place. What’s wrong with that?’
Connor threw his hands up in the air. ‘You’re with the wrong bloke if it’s security and forward planning you’re wanting. That’s not who I am, love. I don’t want to work in the business. I’m suffocated just thinking about it.’
‘So, what is it you want?’ she asked, holding her breath.
‘I want to finish this thesis, but I want to concentrate on writing poetry.’
‘What? How in hell’s name are we to live, Connor, on my salary? How fair is that?’
Connor sighed. ‘I know you and your family think I’m a loser, Aoife, but I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I tried to work in the family business and loathed it, and I was hopeless at it. They only tolerated me because I’m family. I’m not interested in having a career as an estate agent. I want to write, and I’ll take bar work or anything casual that’s going to finance our lives together.’
‘Then how the hell do we pay for this wedding?’
‘Aoife, I love you, I do, but this big wedding doesn’t matter to me. I want to be with you, but why do we have to do things on such a big scale? Why not get married and just ask family and later we can have a party for everyone?’
‘Because that’s not what I want.’
They locked eyes.
‘Connor, I want a nice wedding with all my family and friends present, and I want a husband with a proper job. I get how important poetry is to you, but you can find time for that. I’ll help you make time.’
‘You don’t get me at all, do you? I don’t want to fit writing into my life. It is my life.’
‘Do you know how pretentious that sounds? And where do I fit into your life? Think about it, we will no longer be flatmates – we’re getting married, for God’s sake. We must plan for our future, buy a house, and maybe even start a family. It will take two of us working hard to make that happen. You can’t just indulge in a pipe dream while I do all the heavy lifting.’
‘I didn’t think you thought my writing was a pipe dream. You always encouraged me – were you just pandering to my ego?’
‘Connor, I love your poetry, really I do, but you must see that it’s unrealistic to depend on it. Lots of people hold down jobs and still write. Why can’t you?’
‘Because I can’t. I could do bar work or work part-time, but I need to concentrate on what’s important to me.’
‘I thought I was important to you.’
They stared at each other in silence.
‘Do you want to call the wedding off?’ she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
As she turned away, Connor reached out for her hand.
‘I love you. You have to believe me. There is no one else I care about. I want to be with you. But I can’t be what you want me to be.’
She pulled away abruptly. ‘Then I suppose we better end this now. I would like it if you could move out soon. There’s no point in prolonging this. I’m sure your brother can find you somewhere to stay.’
Connor stared at her in shock.
‘Are you serious – you want me to move out?’
Aoife hesitated, but words spilt out that were cold and certain.
‘Yes, I do. There is no point in dragging this out. Neither of us will change, so let’s stop wasting each other’s time. We can’t keep having the same argument over and over again.’
They stared wordlessly at each other.
Then Aoife went into the bedroom. She grabbed her toothbrush, her make-up bag, and a change of clothes.
Connor followed her, a look of helpless disbelief working its way across his face.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘I’ll stay with a friend tonight – and I mean it, I want you gone by tomorrow evening. We can decide how to cancel the wedding arrangements later.’
As she put things in a bag Connor walked over to her. He reached out to touch her, but she pushed him away. He followed her to the living room.
‘Aoife, we can’t just end like this. Why not just take a bit of time, cool down, and work something out?’
‘I am calm, and I don’t think sleeping on this is going to make any difference. Neither of us is going to change who we are. So, let’s just call it quits and sort out the details next week of how to disentangle ourselves from the plans that we made.’
She picked up her car keys and left.
Outside, she took big gulping mouthfuls of air. Keep breathing, just hold on for a few more minutes. She got into her car and let out a shriek like an animal in pain. Dropping her head on the steering wheel, she howled. When she was calmer, she knew she would have to go, terrified that the neighbours would see her, that someone would tap on the window and ask if she was OK. She started the ignition. Where could she go to sit and process what had just happened? There was the finality of it all – Connor and her, finished – no wedding, no us. There was only one option. Right now, she needed a friend, preferably one who would just shut up and listen. She drove to Sorcha’s.
Her friend lived a couple of streets away. As she drew up, she saw Sorcha’s car parked across from her ground-floor apartment. Good, she was at home. Still, she hesitated about going inside. To tell Sorcha that the wedding was off made it real – too real. Her mobile rang. It was Connor. She didn’t answer. Sorcha must have seen her pull up because she waved from the window. The door was flung open.
There was no need for words, Sorcha gripped her in a tight hug that felt warm and safe. She was all softness and comforting folds of fleshiness, her fair hair brushing featherlike across her face as they embraced.
‘I knew something was wrong when you didn’t come in straight away. Do you want to tell me about it, or do you just want time to howl?’
Aoife couldn’t answer.
‘Come on in. This calls for tea and toast.’
Aoife wiped at her tear-soaked face as Sorcha led the way into the kitchen. She sat and tried to calm herself as Sorcha made them tea and hot buttered toast.
After she had gulped down some of the tea, she blurted, ‘Well, there’ll be no need to shop for bridesmaids’ dresses next week. The wedding is off.’
‘What? Aww, God, that’s awful! What happened?’
Through rivulets of tears and a runny nose, Aoife tried to explain.
‘He’s just not taking it seriously, Sorcha. He doesn’t seem to realise that getting married is a big deal. I mean, he thinks he can just get any old part-time job. All he’s worried about is finding time to write his precious bloody poetry!’
‘Oh, Aoife, I’m so sorry. But are you sure that you can’t work something out? I know writing is important to him – maybe you should postpone the wedding until he’s more established.’
‘More established! Are you mad? It’s a poet he wants to be, not a bestselling novelist! He’s much too bloody grand for that! He’ll never make a decent living, and he expects me to be the main breadwinner. Come on, I’m a bloody teacher living in Dublin – we’d always be struggling.’
‘But, Aoife, you’ve always known how he felt about his work. Surely this isn’t news to you?’
Aoife sprang to her feet. ‘Whose side are you on? It’s like you’re making me out to be the villain of the piece.’
‘Hey, calm down – of course I’m on your side but, Aoife, it’s better you have this out now and not after you’re married.’
Aoife slumped back on the chair. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I think I just expected Connor to get it that marriage changed everything. I mean I hoped we’d start a family soon, but I think Connor wasn’t thinking that far ahead.’
Sorcha clasped Aoife’s clammy hand. ‘To be honest, Aoife, I always felt that you were great together as a couple, but I felt less certain of you as a married pair. I knew that you both were mad about each other, but I felt that the differences between you that drew you together might also pull you apart. Face it – you always knew that being a poet was important to him and yet you were putting him in a position where he would have to choose between being a regular guy in a regular job and doing the thing in the world he loved the most.’
‘Are you saying this is my fault for trying to frogmarch him into marriage? He asked me, you know. I didn’t torture him to marry me!’ She pulled her hand away.
‘Hey, calm down, I’m not the enemy. Of course he wanted to marry you. I just don’t think marriage meant the same thing to both of you. For you it was about responsibility, moving on, having kids; but I think Connor just saw it as a nice romantic way of showing his commitment to you and a good excuse for a party.’
‘For God’s sake, Sorcha, everyone knows what marriage means! Why can’t you see he is a completely irresponsible jerk?’
‘Honey, he wasn’t being irresponsible. It would be irresponsible to marry someone without being true to who you are. Connor isn’t a nine-to-five man. He would drive you mad with what you would see as his lack of ambition. He is ambitious, but not for the things that drive you. You want him to be someone he’s not.’
‘Well, that’s just great. If you noticed all that, why didn’t you say something to me before now?’
‘Because I hoped I was wrong and mainly because I’m a coward.’
The friends sat in the kitchen sipping tea and watching the night close in. They got a bottle of wine out and killed it, and its twin. It didn’t help.
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, after throwing up twice and suffering a cold shower, Aoife returned home. The house was empty and cold. Connor must have stayed out all night. The sight of his duffle bag waiting to be packed made her heart crumble. Don’t cry, she ordered. She had to go to work. Perhaps she should ring in sick? No, anything was better than brooding. She had better get a bus. It was lucky she didn’t get breathalysed on her way back from Sorcha’s. Thinking about work, she realised she’d eventually have to tell her work colleagues about her break-up. Even the bloody kids knew she was getting married. Shit, shit!
Her day was a tough one, with no free classes. In the past, the non-stop nature of her Tuesdays made her heart sink, but today she welcomed the distraction. The pupils didn’t have an opportunity to mess as she kept them working.
Forgoing her morning caffeine infusion was tough but, putting on a cheerful false face with her workmates was a far tougher prospect so she hid out in her classroom. At lunchtime, she walked to a nearby café and drank a black Americano and ate a stale bagel. It suited her mood. The rest of the day she endured.
Once again, the house was empty. But it felt different, and she realised Connor had been back and cleared much of his stuff. There were gaps in the shelves where his books had been – mainly poetry and the albums they had collected together. She wandered into the bedroom. Most of his clothes were missing, just a few forgotten shirts sitting in his closet. His guitar was no longer resting against the dresser and his laptop was also gone. It was surprising how little stuff Connor had accumulated. The only evidence remaining of his presence were a few items in the laundry basket. Did he expect her to wash them, or should she pick them out and bin them? But he had left the bloody rocking chair behind. They called it the cursing chair because she swore at it so often when she stubbed her toe against it. Connor loved it and every night before getting into bed he would sit strumming his guitar, often playing the same riff over and over. A searing ache twisted her insides as she looked at it, torn between wanting to take a hammer to it and longing to stroke its smooth surface. Just now she didn’t care about the wedding, she just wanted him back. Should she ring him, suggesting they forget about getting married and just continue to live together? But she knew she couldn’t. A relationship needed forward momentum and, besides, trying to restore the status quo would be futile.
It was disturbing to realise she was after all her mother’s daughter – a conventional girl who wanted the usual things out of life – a man with a job, a house, and later a family. Although she loved Connor, she didn’t love him enough to change her worldview, and he couldn’t be someone that he wasn’t. If only she could let go of those middle-class values and just take a leap of faith with Connor, but she knew that if he couldn’t make a living out of his poetry, she would grow to resent and even despise him. Aoife felt smaller for this realisation but couldn’t deny its truth.
With faint surprise, she realised she had not given a thought to the box and its contents for hours, and now she sought the distraction it would offer. She was just about to go fetch it when her mobile rang.
It was Sorcha.
‘Well, love, how are you?’
‘My head has stopped pounding, but other vital organs are seriously impaired, especially the heart,’ she said.
‘Do you regret ending it? I mean, is there any chance of making things right between you two? You know you were great together.’
Aoife noticed how it didn’t take a death to change the tense of a relationship already with Sorcha. They were in the past – great together then but now terminal.
‘Yeah, we were, but that was then, and this is now,’ she said.
‘Do you fancy meeting up tonight or are you going to sit home and brood?’
Aoife decided she didn’t want to be alone to weigh up the equally unpleasant options of dissecting her relationship or facing up to the horrors that the box held.
‘Let’s meet up. But I can’t face talking. What about going to a movie? Are you up for that?’
They met at half past six. The local multiplex offered the usual fare: frothy romantic comedies, a couple of violent thrillers, or animated kids’ shows. Only a masochist would choose a romantic comedy, but perversely that’s what they did. Sitting in the darkened theatre, gorging on popcorn and ice cream, she let the silliness of the movie plot wash over her. Occasionally, she caught Sorcha casting anxious glances at her and offered reassuring smiles in return.
