Sisters and Lies Page 6

  I tried to imagine how he would take the news. Shock? Sadness? Anger? He might insist on coming with me to England – convince me I couldn’t do it on my own. But surely that would be an awful idea. We were separated. We couldn’t resolve the children issue. Clearly, it was best all round if we just left things the way they were.

  Although who was I trying to kid? I was dying to see Jacob. Sure I’d banged on about wanting to tell him in person, convincing myself it was because I wanted to do ‘the decent thing’, but in reality, I just wanted to be near him, to touch him. We hadn’t seen each other in so long and I felt like an anorexic dying without nourishment. I’d been lying when I’d convinced myself about returning to Ireland: it hadn’t been about my cat or my apartment or picking up clothes. I could have sorted all of that out from London. It had been about Jacob. It had been a pathetic excuse to see him again.

  Over the past three days, as I’d watched Evie lying in a coma, something had clicked into place. I couldn’t get through this without his love. Yes, I’d left our marriage because of my refusal to have kids – something which had seemed impossible to resolve at the time – but now, with all that had happened to Evie, maybe there was a way to put things back together. Jacob was my rock. My shelter. If I didn’t have him, how could I find my way through this nightmare?

  I continued thinking such thoughts all the way to Dun Laoghaire at which point I got off the DART and began to walk along the seafront. The day was sweltering so the place was thronged.

  I removed my trusty leather jacket and, for once, cursed my jeans and Doc Martens. It was a uniform that stood me in good stead for ninety-nine per cent of the year in Ireland, but today I looked ridiculous. Like some kind of vampiric creature while everyone else was walking around in sundresses and cut-off shorts.

  But I didn’t care – soon I would be seeing Jacob and, though I knew I shouldn’t, I started to imagine him slipping off my tank top, climbing on top of me and covering my mouth with the warm, salty tang of his own.

  For a moment I allowed my mind to linger, imagining what it would feel like, but then I shook myself. ‘For fuck sake, Rachel,’ I heard my internal voice lecture. ‘Things are already too confusing, plus your emotions are running high. Put your jacket on and stop thinking lascivious thoughts.’ Reluctantly, annoyed at the logic of my own voice, that was exactly what I did.

  And then, just a few minutes later, I was standing in front of it: the cottage I had once called home. It was small and ivy-clad, with sparkling views of the Irish Sea. Every morning when I’d lived there, I’d risen and thanked the universe for giving me that life. For Jacob. For delivering him to me.

  Now I stood in front of the familiar lilac door and tapped loudly on the brass knocker, pausing for an answer. Except no one came. I took out my phone and dialled Jacob’s again but it was still off. He’d probably gone for a swim. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be down at the nearby Forty Foot, like all the other sun-worshippers: he’d have cycled over to Killiney to his ‘secret’ beach, miles away. I could picture him there, his body strong and lithe – his arms piercing the water rhythmically with each stroke.

  As I was thinking this, I heard a noise, somewhere between a crash and a thud, and, a few seconds later, Jacob emerged from behind the door, his hair on end, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. ‘Jesus Christ, Rachel,’ he said, rubbing the back of his head, glancing towards the bedroom. ‘What are you doing here? Ever heard of ringing?’

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘Several times. Your phone is dead.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Um, well, now’s not a great time.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said, pushing past him. ‘I really need to use the bathroom.’

  ‘Rachel, you can’t just barge in here like this.’

  ‘Why not? It’s my house too.’ Out of nowhere I began to cry. ‘Evie is in a coma. She may die!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was in a car crash in London. She was driving.’ I lifted my palms towards the ceiling as if to underscore my astonishment. ‘Evie doesn’t have a licence. You know that, right? And she’s got this boyfriend …’

  Suddenly there was another clatter, and then a voice.

  A female voice.

  ‘Jay, everything okay out there?’

  Jay?

  I watched as Jacob glanced towards the bedroom, then back at me – a flicker of dread passing across his face.

  I couldn’t move. It reminded me of the time, as a child, I’d watched a boy being knocked down but hadn’t been able to shout out in time.

  As if on cue, a young blonde woman appeared through the door, wearing just her bra and knickers. She had a body the very opposite of mine: large, pendulous breasts, flaring hips. She screamed as soon as she saw me. ‘Who are you?’ she said, reaching for the nearest thing she could find to cover herself up – a tiny red apron with the word ‘saucy’ emblazoned across the front.

  ‘I’m Rachel,’ I snarled at her. ‘Jay’s wife.’

  Minutes later, as I stomped down the road, Jacob appeared beside me, his breathing laboured. ‘Rachel, please stop. Please let me explain this.’ He grabbed my arm but I shrugged him off.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I said, then chastised myself for the cliché. What right did I have to be angry? I had left my husband, against his will, so he could find someone to procreate with, and now he had.

  ‘This wasn’t the way …’ He pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I love you, Rachel. I love you more than anything.’

  ‘Funny way of showing it,’ I muttered, refusing to look up at him.

  ‘Yesterday was Gracie’s anniversary. I thought you’d call me.’

  I stood there, something exploding across my memory banks – Gracie? What the hell was he talking about Gracie for?

  ‘She died a year ago yesterday, Rachel. The fifth of August.’

  I stared at him, a sick feeling rising from the pit of my stomach.

  ‘You forgot?’

  ‘Oh, Jacob.’ Shame overcame me. ‘What with Evie and everything …’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I understand about yesterday, but before that. Why did you refuse to talk to me? Why did you shut me out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I must have texted and called a hundred times when you were in Australia. Did you ever consider maybe picking up the phone? Letting me know you were okay?’

  I dropped my eyes, trying to think of an excuse. But I had none. He was right – I had shut him out.

  All of a sudden, Jacob grabbed my hand. ‘Rachel, what you saw back there, it meant nothing. She meant nothing. We didn’t even have full sex. I’ve been drinking. For days, actually.’

  He stepped closer, as if to embrace me. For a moment I wavered – the desire for him to draw me in to him almost overwhelming. But something inside me clicked into action: something instinctive and familiar. ‘Just leave it, Jacob. Don’t you understand? I can’t do this any more … We can’t do this.’

  I wobbled away from him. Bit down hard on my lip so I wouldn’t cry.

  ‘Rachel, please listen to me. I need you. We need each other. Especially after what you’ve just told me about Evie.’ He was crying now, big man tears plopping down his cheeks – tiny rivulets of pain.

  ‘I need nothing of the sort,’ I snapped, causing passers-by to glance up from their ice-cream cones. ‘What I need now is for you to go back to your big-breasted friend, whatever her name is. Accept our relationship is over.’

  Jacob raised his eyes to meet mine. ‘Rachel, come on.’

  Something inside me hardened. ‘Jacob, get it into your head. Our relationship is finished. We’re through.’

  For a second he stood there, as if rendered mute. Then, before I could stop him, he bent down and kissed me. There was no trace of the girl: just a hint of his deodorant. And something else. A smell only I knew.

  ‘I love you so much,’ he murmured. ‘Please come back to me.’ Then h
e turned and walked away and I was left standing there. A vampire in the sun.

  11.

  Evie

  I’m still in a coma. I have no idea how much time has passed because I have no concept of time. And it’s not like I can open my eyes and look at a clock. But I can definitely hear voices. Rachel is still here, or at least she was. She’s gone back to Ireland briefly, something about picking up clothes and sorting out her cat, but she has reassured me she’s coming back. In the meantime I’m trying to figure out ways to communicate with her, let her know I’m awake. Not that anything has worked so far, mind you. When she squeezes my hand, I try my hardest to squeeze back but she never seems to notice. Or when she kisses my forehead I try to open my eyes, make my eyelashes brush against her cheek. But as of yet … nada.

  The only noteworthy thing I’ve learned so far is that she’s living with Donnagh. I overheard her telling Dr Bartlett yesterday: ‘I moved into Evie’s apartment in the end. I’m sharing with that boyfriend you mentioned, Donnagh Flood.’

  I wanted to scream at her then, tell her he was number one on my suspect list and that she needed to get away from him, very far away. But I couldn’t. No matter how hard I tried.

  ‘It’s going okay. He’s seldom there. Seems to travel a lot.’

  Dr Bartlett muttered something I didn’t quite catch, then Rachel said, ‘Yes, I was a bit shocked to find him there initially. But I’ve adjusted now. To be honest, I’ve had worse flatmates.’

  ‘He could be a maniac!’ I wanted to shout. ‘An axe-murderer!’ But, of course, I remained silent.

  I’m thinking very hard at the moment. Trying to form a coherent timeline. The last few days before the coma remain a mystery. But the previous two months are all there, quite clear in fact. The months prior to that, though, go back to being a jumble, riddled with gaps and lacunae. I remember some things – my interactions with Janet, the arguments we had – but other stuff, what my life was like pre-Donnagh? To be honest, it’s all over the place.

  But returning to events I can actually remember …

  The morning after Donnagh’s interview an enormous bouquet of flowers arrived on my desk. George handed them to me, having picked them up from a courier. ‘Somebody’s popular,’ he said, winking at me.

  I plucked the card from the cellophane wrapper: ‘Enjoyed lunch. Can we make it dinner next? DFx’ My breath caught. DF – Donnagh Flood. Jesus Christ, why was he sending me flowers? And what was all this about wanting to meet me again?

  As if on cue my phone rang and before I could stop myself I’d answered it.

  ‘You are going to come, aren’t you?’ It was him.

  ‘I, um, well …’

  ‘Too late. If you haven’t thought of an excuse by now, then on some level you want to come out with me.’

  ‘Who are you – Sigmund Freud?’

  ‘I dabble,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘Come on, you can teach me the words of “My Lovely Horse”. I’m not sure I know them all.’

  ‘I can’t, I have to go to –’

  Donnagh began to sing the lyrics loudly down the phone.

  ‘Please stop,’ I said, into my handset. ‘Did anyone tell you you sound like a foghorn?’

  ‘I admit singing isn’t my strong point. Although my main talent does involve my mouth …’

  I laughed, despite myself. In terms of flirting, he was a fucking pro.

  ‘Come on, Durant. You’ll come. What’s the problem? Very least you’ll get a nice meal out of me. Possibly some champagne if you’re being really good. What’s not to like?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I said, relenting. No wonder this man worked in construction. He was like a battering ram.

  ‘I’ll get someone to pick you up. What’s your address?’

  ‘No, please. That’s unnecessary. I’d prefer to make my own way there.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get my secretary to email you directions. Seven o’clock tomorrow evening suit you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the terror in my voice. Why the hell was I agreeing to this? What was I getting myself into?

  As I put down my phone, Tom turned to me. ‘You okay, Eve? You look a little startled.’

  ‘I’ve somehow agreed to go on a date with Donnagh Flood,’ I blurted out.

  ‘What – the Irish guy you interviewed yesterday? I thought you said he was an arsehole.’

  ‘Did I?’ I mumbled. ‘I’m not sure he’s an arsehole, exactly. Just incredibly persistent.’

  ‘Do you want me to ring him back? Cancel for you?’

  ‘Thanks, sweetie,’ I said, ‘but I’m a big girl now – I think I’ll just have to go through with it.’

  Tom tutted. ‘Sounds like a bully, if you ask me. Just remember to take care of yourself. Don’t take any shit from him.’

  I was tempted to laugh, though of course I didn’t. If only Tom knew – his advice was coming about fifteen years too late.

  I tried to tell myself it was another ‘one-off’. Except now it was a two-off. Was Donnagh right? At some subconscious level did I want to see him again? After all, I couldn’t help noticing that, amid all the fear and panic I felt, there was a frisson of something else. Excitement, perhaps?

  The guy who’d been repulsed by my physical appearance all those years ago was now sending me flowers, ringing me up, cajoling me into dating him. Maybe I could have some fun with this. Play with him a little.

  So it was on with my tight black Karen Millen cocktail dress, my hair piled high on my head, and dangly diamanté earrings that caught the light when I walked.

  People said I looked nice, these days, but I still mainly focused on the flaws, just as I had as a teenager. My skin was dull. I needed to lose ten pounds. Was that more cellulite on my arse? When it came to my body, I felt like a lion tamer, daily cracking my whip to prevent this wild beast – my flesh – from overpowering me. Controlling Donnagh Flood was an even scarier proposition. There wasn’t a big enough whip in the world for this guy.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, kissing my cheek – an old-fashioned gesture, at odds with the flirty playboy I’d interviewed. ‘No tape recorder with you this time?’

  I shook my head. I was suddenly so nervous I thought I was going to choke. I guzzled the glass of champagne the waitress presented to me.

  ‘Far from champagne I was reared,’ said Donnagh. ‘Is it just me or does it taste a bit like puppy breath?’

  ‘You’ve obviously been drinking the wrong kind of champagne …’

  ‘Or hanging around with the wrong sort of puppies.’ He smiled at me.

  I continued to drink. It was Friday night, after all. Every Friday night was the same for me. It was like an internal switch went off and I changed from puritanical health freak to hedonistic party girl.

  For a long time Janet had been my partner in crime. ‘We’ll be a long time dead,’ she’d say, as we looked at each other every Sunday morning, the fear taking hold of us like a vice. ‘You didn’t do anything that bad,’ she’d reassure me. ‘Sure everyone has sex in a cupboard at some point in their lives.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Of course! Once I did it in a fridge.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘When I was a waitress. The cooling system had broken down and me and one of the chefs got jiggy over the Baileys ice-cream.’

  ‘Ew.’

  ‘You’ve got to remember I’m from Glasgow.’

  Every anecdote Janet ever told always ended with that.

  But that had been a long time ago. Well, it seemed a long time ago. Janet no longer reassured me about the fear. Now I had to handle my hung-over ‘alco-noia’ all on my own.

  By dessert, I knew I was hammered. I knew it because of one thing. I wanted to snog Donnagh. The alcohol was numbing me, making me forget things. And all I could think of was how beautiful his top lip was, how it curled. What it would feel like to touch it. Or the way the top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a hint of chest hair unde
rneath.

  I shook myself, trying to dispel those feelings. I hated this man, so why was I feeling … lust, I suppose you could call it? If I didn’t get out of there it would overwhelm me. He would overwhelm me.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ I said, wobbling unsteadily to my feet.

  Donnagh looked at me in confusion. ‘But we haven’t even had coffee yet.’

  I grabbed my coat and bag and, without further ado, made my way towards the exit.

  It was blindingly rude, of course. But not as rude as what would happen if I didn’t get away. I couldn’t trust my own libido. It didn’t remember the things Donnagh had done. But my brain did. The waitress near the door raised her eyebrow as I rushed past, but she didn’t understand. No one understood. That man looked nice. Beautiful, even. But he could destroy you if he wanted to. I’d learned that the hard way.

  I rushed down the high steps outside the restaurant, still feeling wobbly. Something caught and I felt myself come loose, unravel. I spun, like a drunken ballerina, but managed to remain on my feet. My left shoe, however, had come off, and lay on a higher step. My black Jimmy Choo stiletto. My lucky feather.

  ‘Eve.’ Donnagh was standing at the top of the steps. ‘What’s the story?’

  I stared at him, then at my shoe. There was but a millisecond to make a decision. If I went back for the shoe, I went back for him. On some level you want to come out with me. His words reverberated inside my head. No, I don’t, I thought. This was a mistake and I want to stay as far away from you as possible.

  That was when I ran. I whisked off my other shoe, held it in my hand, and ran in my bare feet on streets no one should run barefoot through.

  The taxi was only metres away. ‘Christ, love, what you trying to do? Cut your feet to ribbons?’ The driver was staring at my bare feet in horror. ‘Could be glass or needles or all sorts out there.’

  I gave him my address, tempted to say, ‘Step on it,’ but resisting because, you know, it wasn’t Cagney & Lacey.

  I didn’t look back because I knew what I would see. Donnagh, staring at me. Wondering how he would retaliate.