Chapter 8 #2
It flashes by, and is gone. We go further along the waterfront, reaching the end of the main Bonnie Bay road. I gaze past him down to the beach, trying to ignore his presence and concentrate on that glorious sunset instead. It’s hard, because he is right there.
He has walked out of my dreams, my nightmares, my memories, and right back into my life – bigger and irritatingly even more handsome than I recalled.
How is it that some men just age so well?
Their creases and crags give them character; their crows’ feet give them gravitas, their laughter lines give them warmth. He hasn’t even gone bald, the bastard.
He senses my scrutiny, turns to briefly meet my eyes. I look quickly away. I can’t stand it. I want to open the car door and jump out. He puts the radio on, which probably seemed like a good idea to fill the now-awkward silence. Beth sulking in the back, me freaking out in the front.
Music should work to paper over the cracks – apart from the fact that the universe has also been creating her own playlist, it seems. The first thing we hear is ‘When We Were Young’ by Adele.
It’s a beautiful song, one I have been known to have a cry-and-sing-along to after a few G&Ts in the kitchen back home.
Frankly Adele could sing about a cheese grater and still make me cry, but this one is a bit on the nose.
He obviously thinks so too, because he mutters ‘For feck’s sake… ’ and turns it off again.
Good Lord. This is going to be a very long drive, even if it only takes five minutes.
We finally arrive, pulling up outside his house. It was a winding journey up into the hills, along one-way tracks, the views of the village and the sea tumbling down behind us as we went.
I’d never have found it alone, hidden as it is in a crevice between the gorse-covered slopes. I think I could easily walk into the village from here, but the best way back might be flying carpet. Like the one in the gorgeous Arabian Nights book Moira showed me earlier today.
Those pictures were magical, marvellous, the colours still rich after all this time.
How I’d love to create something that puts even a fraction of that much beauty out into the world…
but even my fantasy life has gone sour now.
I hadn’t really thought I’d move to Bonnie Bay and become an artist, but I definitely don’t have the option now.
Rory stole my past, and now he’s stolen my future.
Admittedly my completely fictional future, but still.
I feel the slap of that theft, and it stokes my unhappiness.
He parks the car, and we all sit awkwardly for a moment.
The sunlight has faded to that mysterious between-time when it could be night or day, a time I usually love.
Now, though? Now it makes me feel even more unsettled as I get out of the car and look around.
There is enough light to see outlines, but not enough to see clearly, and what I can make out is unusual.
I stare at the shadows and shapes, at the light and shade, trying to make sense of it.
‘Why does your place look like a junkyard?’ Beth asks, getting to the heart of it. ‘Are you a scrap metal dealer? One of those “where there’s muck there’s brass” types?’ At least she’s speaking again – too inquisitive in this new environment to let her sulk drag on.
She prowls off to investigate, and I immediately tell her to be careful as she heads for a heap of what seem to be discarded girders. I glance across at Rory, and say: ‘Does this place come with free tetanus shots? She’d better not hurt herself!’
He catches up with her, and guides her through what I now see is a cleared pathway.
All around, there are heaps of metal in all different shapes.
Bars, pipes, barbed wire, what looks like the grille from a truck, an old slide from a playground.
It’s all very strange, and despite my distressed state, I can’t help but be intrigued.
‘I’m, uh, I’m an artist,’ Rory explains, running his hands through his hair and looking slightly abashed. Like he still doesn’t quite agree with the term. ‘I create sculptures, mainly from metal.’
Of course he does, I think, with more than a sprinkling of bitterness. Like myself, he was artistic. He painted and drew, but even back then he liked working with his hands – pottery, papier-maché, 3D models. I’d been thrilled by it all, by the idea of our future.
Now he’s here, living his dream. He’s an artist, but a macho one – he probably has groupies, looking like he looks too. And he lives in a big house with plenty of land, so presumably he’s successful as well. Good for him.
Beth is asking him more questions, but I can’t stomach it.
I wander away, and gaze down the cliffside, over the carpet of flowers that still glow slightly in the twilight, all the way to the bay below.
It’s breathtakingly beautiful, and I find myself looking up at the darkening sky above us.
Imagining what it will look like when it’s full night, and the stars come out to play.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly overwhelmed by everything.
The shock of seeing Rory. The underlying bruises of my life.
The sheer beauty of this place. I feel a tear roll down my cheek, and am glad I’m facing away from them both.
I don’t want either of them to see me cry.
I give myself a moment, wipe my face, and walk back towards Beth. Rory is showing her one of his creations on his phone, and she tilts the screen towards me, full of excitement.
I have to admit, it’s impressive. A full-sized stag, made of metal apart from fantastical, twisting wooden antlers and beautiful eyes carved from what might be coal, I can’t really tell.
It’s in the grounds of a big country house, and despite being made of industrial materials, somehow looks totally at home there.
I manage a small smile, more for Beth’s sake than anything, and say: ‘That’s great.
Shall we go inside? I’m pretty tired. Wouldn’t mind an early night. ’
He nods, a little muscle in the side of his face twitching. ‘Of course,’ he says simply. ‘Follow me.’
Beth looks at me as walk behind him, her expression mischievous and her eyes sparkling. She fans her face, making the universal gesture for ‘he’s hot’. I’m taken aback, and just shake my head. That’s too many layers of strange for me to unpick right now.
I pause a few feet away from the door, looking around. I can’t quite believe I’m about to walk into Rory Callaghan’s home, and maybe I’m stalling. Maybe I’m scared that I’ll fall into some kind of timeslip, and emerge on the other side as a younger, weaker me.
Except, a little part of me whispers, the younger me was also – before it all went wrong – so much happier.
Being a mum has been the biggest joy of my life, and I would never be without Beth, but outside of that?
Looking purely at my own life, through selfish eyes?
I have never hit the same highs as I did when I was in love with Rory.
Or the same lows I plummeted to when he abandoned me.
When I struggled to cope with the bad things that happened afterwards.
I take a few more steps, stopping at the threshold, taking a deep breath.
The house is large, whitewashed, with a collection of outbuildings as well as the grounds.
I can’t see the light of any other nearby homes, and the twinkling glow of Bonnie Bay is a distant ribbon of brightness down below.
We’re surrounded by wilderness here, tucked away in the hills, the only sound that of the waves that still reach us, and an owl hooting in the trees.
Maybe it’s about to fly out to hunt, getting ready to pounce on some poor little mouse down below.
I know exactly how the mouse feels right now.
‘Go on in,’ Beth says, shoving me in the back. ‘You’re not a vampire, you don’t need to wait for an invitation!’
I glance over my shoulder, manage to raise my eyebrows and quip back: ‘Or am I?’
‘Nah. You like cake too much. You never see a vampire stuffing down a Nutella waffle as fast as you can.’
Naturally enough, Rory appears at that exact moment, peering at us from the doorway. Yes, here I am, Rory – back in your life, a big, messy waffle-stuffing woman with a teenaged daughter and a boring job. Three cheers for fate.
‘Um, do you want to come in?’ he asks uncertainly. His eyes skim my face, as though he’s fully prepared for me saying no. Part of me would really like to. Beth takes the decision out of my hands, and strides past.
The first place we find ourselves is a spacious hallway, with stone floors and a big staircase that swoops upwards.
There is clutter, but organised clutter, and the whole place smells somehow of the forest. Fresh and woody and clean.
There are coats and boots slung in one corner, and framed prints of drawings on the walls.
I try not to stare at them too closely, because I see that at least some of them are of his family.
They never liked me – or maybe, I think now, as an adult and a mother, they simply never liked how serious our relationship was.
Neither set of parents did, and I guess I can understand that better these days.
Still. Understanding doesn’t change how hard it was.
They meddled and interfered. They made us sneak around, turned it all into something forbidden, something we had to fight for.
Maybe we’d have just got bored if they hadn’t, maybe it would all have fizzled out.
My nostrils flare as the thoughts assault me, and I follow the two of them into a big living room.