Chapter Thirty-Three
Jenna
Smiling at us with an undeniable glint in his eyes, I see Marty's father. Again, I notice how his features differ from his son’s – a more subtle nose and fairer colouring - but he has a similar presence, the same strong and straight-up physique.
Apparently, he also has the ability to make quite the noise when coughing on purpose.
Standing next to him, almost a foot smaller, wearing an elegant floaty chiffon dress in a canary yellow that accentuates her tan, Marty's mother seems to occupy just as much space.
Her scowl pulls at features which would otherwise be classically beautiful - dark eyes framed by brows that have a natural arch, rosy-pink lips and high cheekbones.
Now I see them side by side, I can tell she and her husband differ in age, and I fleetingly can't help but wonder by how much.
Maeve then steps up to join them, her head bowed over her phone, and the screen lights up a face that I can now see mimics her father's, even despite the artistry that is her hair and make-up.
Her outfit, a skin-tight olive-green dress, makes her eyes pop and accentuates just how long and lean she is.
Marty's relaxing back in his chair and chuckling to himself because of course that's his default reaction to being interrupted mid-snog by his parents. Meanwhile I am busy touching a hand to my mouth as if to remove any evidence as I also pray for the ground to swallow me whole.
“Should we give you a minute?” his father asks, but all the same he moves to the table, placing his phone down. Then he steps to the side and pulls out the chair opposite Marty for his wife to sit in, which she does, her expression no softer.
“Not necessary.” Marty shuffles his chair forward as I attempt to meet his mother's eyes and smile at her. She suddenly becomes deeply invested in unfolding her napkin and placing it across her lap, looking at nothing else. Marty’s father sits at the head of the table.
“I'll sit myself then,” Maeve says, and she drops her phone to the table with a loud thud. She flops down in her chair – the one opposite me – with a huff. “It's not like I'm already experiencing my perpetual third wheel PTSD from this dynamic.”
“You can't get PTSD from that,” Marty says.
“It certainly feels traumatic at this point,” Maeve mutters.
“Actually, Maeve has a point. Loneliness is an epidemic,” I say and am now trying to catch any of his family member's eyes to prove I'm more than just an older woman who chews Marty’s face off.
“Oh, fantastic. It's killing me too as well as making me a social pariah,” Maeve says, but then she catches my eye and gives me a wink I could describe as life-saving.
“You're a lot of things, Maeve, but lonely is not one of them. Not with 800,000 followers on TikTok,” Marty adds.
“960,000 actually.”
“How many?” I gasp.
Maeve just shrugs. “And here I am, date-less, while my social media inept brother has managed to pull someone while stone cold sober and practically bankrupt.”
Marty does a mini bow over the table towards his sister. “It's a natural talent. I can't teach it.”
“Jenna's right,” Cynthia says suddenly, and all our heads twist her way.
She's still playing with the napkin on her lap, eyes downcast. “I've read about it in the Independent.
We don't have the same sense of community anymore. We used to live together - multi-generational families all under the same roof - and now families are separated by more distance and have much more disconnected lives with online connections replacing real life contact. And the research suggests that loneliness does indeed kill.”
“Yes, that's very similar to what I've read,” I say. I am ready when Cynthia looks up, nodding at her with a small smile she doesn’t return.
“Well, at the risk of exposing myself as the emotionally-underdeveloped man that I am,” Marty's father says after a much quieter throat clearing. “Could we maybe rewind the conversation a little from such a heavy topic and start again, also pretending that obscene French kiss hadn't happened?”
“French kiss? Jesus, Da. What year are we in?” Maeve spits out.
“Yes, I'm sorry about that,” I say, wiping my mouth again, this time with my napkin.
“Jesus, we were just shifting. It was hardly obscene,” Marty mutters.
“Tell that to my stomach contents,” Maeve retorts, her phone back in her hand.
“Shifting?” I ask inquisitively.
“Snogging, lobbing the gob, eating face, póigín, getting off, kissing,” Marty lists and I swear out of the corner my eye I see his mother flinch with each word.
“It's good to see you again, Jenna,” his father interrupts loudly.
“You too,” I say, following his lead. “James, right?”
“Correct. Good memory. And I believe you've already met my wife Cynthia,” he says in a way that teeters between innocently cheerful and deliberately cheeky. I can see where his children get that from now.
“Yes. Nice to see you again too, Cynthia,” I say the name somewhat intentionally because while I am ready to prove to an extent that I'm not too old to be her son's date tonight, I equally want her to know that I am definitely too old to call her Mrs O'Martin.
“Hello, Jenna,” Cynthia says, finally looking up for more than a moment. The similarity between her eyes and Marty's stuns me briefly. Holding my gaze, she swallows. “I want to firstly say that I'm sorry for this morning. I shouldn't have said some of the things I said.”
It's a real, genuine apology and it lands with me as exactly that.
“Thank you, Cynthia. I appreciate that although I do understand why you may have some reservations.” I feel Marty's hand clamp down around mine which actually makes my body jolt as much with desire as shock at this very sudden display of affection.
As if that wasn't enough, he pulls both our hands over to rest on his thigh and the heat from him travels up my arm.
I'm not sure if it's because of my hand on his leg or despite it that Cynthia grabs hold of what I just said and continues. “Well, yes, I do and it's ever such a worry, considering the year we've all had. Aiden's had a very hard time.”
“I know.” I squeeze Marty's hand while smiling at her in a way that I hope is both sympathetic and reassuring.
“Jenna knows all about that, and me, and well, everything.” Marty leans towards his mother now. “You already gave her an unnecessary lecture this morning. It doesn't need repeating, or that just makes your apology worthless.”
His words have a bite I haven't heard in Marty's tone before and it startles me, as does his mother's reaction when she shrinks back into her seat.
“Water, anyone?” James calls out, a bottle in his hand ready to pour.
“Thank you.” I nudge my glass forward. Marty and Maeve do the same, but Cynthia doesn't move, except to cross her arms over her body as if she's suddenly cold.
James quickly adopts the role I suspect he's going to play tonight, Chief Conversation Topic Coordinator. “Tell us a bit about yourself, Jenna. Aiden says you're a writer.”
I have an answer prepared for this question. “Yes, a columnist. I've been writing for newspapers and magazines now for around fifteen years. Mostly freelance but I have done some stints as a staff writer before.”
“Jenna writes about sex and relationships,” Marty adds, and I swear his stare is on his mother, gauging her reaction with a mischievous look in his eyes.
“Oh, really?” James' eyebrows are skyward. “That sounds err...interesting.”
I steal a quick glance at Cynthia, who has her hand flat on her chest as if to check her heart is still beating. Her jaw is clenched, again emphasising her resemblance to Marty.
“Do you like, give sex tips and advice?” Maeve asks, her phone discarded, and there's something in her question that tells me she's actually very interested.
I suck in a deep breath and take a few seconds to consider how to respond.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that I'll never see these people again.
I am not filtering myself for them. “Yes, I have in the past, but I'm trying to now shift my focus to more research about intimacy, sexuality and relationships.
I'm really interested in the psychology of what makes people have fulfilling relationships and satisfying sex lives...or not.”
My eyes are first drawn to Marty's father as he chokes on a mouthful of water. Out of the corner of my eye I then see Cynthia's hands grip the arms of her chair. Finally, I look back at Marty whose smile has narrowed, and I see him swallow, hard.
“Wow,” Maeve mumbles, as she sits back in her chair holding her phone. “You do pick 'em, Marty.”
“Excuse me.” Marty's father continues to cough and starts banging his chest.
“That does sound very interesting,” Cynthia speaks up with a slight wobble in her voice. “Who do you write for?”
I shift my weight in my seat. “Actually, I'm not working right now,” I say. “But I’m hoping to start writing a book soon.”
“You are?” Marty sounds surprised.
“I’ve always wanted to write a book,” I say to Marty. I then turn back to his mother. “I've got some possible angles I want to explore, and I think when I go home I'll be ready to do some research and write a plan.”
“But how can you afford not to work?” Cynthia asks as she picks up her glass of water. “Do you not have a mortgage or rent to pay?”
She looks curious, and not necessarily in a judgmental way. I'm about to answer her but Marty steps in.
“That's a bit of a personal question, Mum. Does it matter?”
“I was only asking-” Cynthia puts her glass back down without drinking from it.
“You don't have to answer that, Jenna,” Marty interrupts, turning to me and for the first time since I met him, I am not fully enamoured with the shape of his smile or the dimples it creates.
“I don't mind. It's a fair question.” I squeeze his leg again but this time it's so I can then slide my hand away from his grip.
“I do have a house, yes, but it currently doesn't have a mortgage. I was lucky to pay it off early, as I inherited some money when I was younger that helped pay a large deposit.”
“Jenna's mother died when she was fifteen,” Marty butts in and I have no idea why he says it, especially in such a pointed way.
I blink but keep talking. “And I have some decent savings as well as the money I got for his share of the house when my ex and I divorced.” I turn and smile at Marty then, but he's not looking at me. His eyes are suddenly fixed on the cutlery in front of him.
Cynthia is as still as a statue, her mouth slightly open, and I know immediately what word will come out of her mouth next. “Divorced?”
I hold onto my smile. “Yes, we split up about a year ago now,” I say, as heat soars up my neck. I can physically feel how much of a test this is for me to own this part of my story.
“Didn't mention that, Aiden,” Marty's father says quietly.
“Because it's not a big deal,” Marty snaps.
At the same time his sister speaks up, her phone still in her hand. “So what?”
I definitely owe Maeve a drink.
“I understand if your parents have questions.” I pick up my wine glass. “It was amicable. No cheating, no foul play. We just changed a lot and fell out of love with each other.”
Cynthia nods as if she's absorbing what I'm saying. But when she speaks, I realise she was just planning a different approach.
“And how old were you when you met your husband. Sorry, ex-husband?”
My smile gets harder to hold onto. “We met when I was twenty-four.”
Cynthia nods to herself, then leans forward to pick up her glass again. She takes a long sip, her eyes darting from Marty to me and back again, not realising how much more power she holds when she says absolutely nothing.
“Oh, this is actually getting interesting now,” Maeve says sliding her phone down on the table, screen down. “I wish I had a drink already.”
While I don’t like Maeve’s new dark interest, I am relieved she’s throwing me a cue to stand and leave.
“Yes, drinks! If you'll excuse me, I will go and see to that,” I say. I'm barely three steps away when I hear Cynthia speak.
“She's divorced!? Why on Earth didn't you tell us that, Aiden?”
I roll my eyes. Looks like it's going to be a long night.