Chapter 8 #3
It’s a huge space, but somehow also feels cosy.
There’s an open fire and stacks of logs, and massive overgrown plants in giant terracotta pots that explain the smell.
It gives the room a verdant feeling, like we might actually be in an enchanted wood instead of indoors.
There’s a big squishy-looking sofa with a small side table, a pair of reading glasses next to a paperback by a writer called John Connolly.
At least he needs specs, I register, with an ounce of petty satisfaction.
Beth is wandering the room while I remain rooted to the spot, frozen in place.
This is his territory, and it is full of him.
His photos, his artwork, his collection of shells laid out on a tray by the window.
I glance around, see shelves crammed with books, papers scattered on a dining table, sketches and plans and pencils in a haphazard heap. His work, I suppose.
‘I love this painting,’ Beth says, pointing at one of a gannet. It’s beautiful, large, in oils I think. I want to go over and lose myself in it, but my feet are broken. ‘Is it yours?’
‘No, that was a, uh, gift from a friend,’ he replies, shrugging.
A friend. A woman, I can tell. Undoubtedly someone incredibly glamorous and arty, talented and gorgeous, one of those types who can wear no make-up and go bra-free under dungarees and get away with it. I grimace as I glance down at myself.
Creased clothes, dull haircut, wearing my comfy bra instead of my hoist-up-the-girls miracle of engineering.
Slightly overweight, very overwrought, totally ordinary in every possible way.
If I’d known I was going to bump into the man who broke my heart, I’d have been on a crash diet and possibly had plastic surgery.
I know I shouldn’t care – I know it shouldn’t matter – but it seems like I’m not quite mature enough at the age of forty-four for that to be true.
‘And is this your boat?’ Beth asks, continuing her one-woman walk around the room. She’s pointing at a framed photo. It looks like Rory, on the deck of a small vessel with an older man.
‘Yeah,’ he replies, smiling as he looks at it. ‘That’s me and Angus, Moira’s husband. Fine man.’
I soften a little at the genuine emotion in his voice, and am curious about Angus.
Moira has talked about him a lot, and I’d like to see a picture of him.
But I’m not quite capable of crossing the five feet to the other side of the room to get a close-up look.
Rory doesn’t seem to want me to anyway – a shadow crosses his face, and he shakes his head.
‘Right,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’ll show you the kitchen.
There’s a fridge full of stuff, help yourself to whatever you need – I’m usually pretty occupied with work, so don’t stand on ceremony.
You want a cuppa, get yourself one. You want anything at all, feel free.
There’s plenty of everything. I’ll give you your own keys, but the door’s usually open.
The lock’s a bit banjaxed anyway, I got the key stuck in it one night not long after I moved here, when I was possibly a wee bit scuttered. ’
Beth looks confused, and echoes: ‘Banjaxed? Scuttered?’
‘Broken, and drunk,’ I say without thinking. I had a crash course in Irish slang when I was with this man, and some of those words have never left the back of my mind, it seems. They’ve just lurked, dormant, waiting to leap into use again. Beth and Rory both stare at me, and I blush.
‘Watching Father Ted and Derry Girls,’ I say quickly, covering up. He knows the truth, of course, but Beth seems to consider the explanation.
‘Okey-doke,’ she says, looking at me intensely.
She probably knows I’m not quite myself, because I’m doing a crappy job of hiding it.
I’m hoping she has no clue why. ‘If you say so. Do you think I might be able to get some water, and then head off to my room? I don’t want to be rude, but I am actually a bit knackered, and I need to speak to Lily before I crash. ’
She glances at Rory and adds: ‘She’s my best friend.’
At least for tonight, I think.
‘Ah. Well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that. Important things, best friends. Come on, I’ll take you through. Jane, would you like a coffee? Tea? Maybe a whisky or a glass of wine?’
God, that sounds tempting. I wonder if it would help?
I wonder if we could get out a bottle of Bushmills, two glasses, and sit together on that squishy sofa like old pals and catch up on the last few decades?
Toast each other’s health, laugh about the old times, reminisce about the foolish childhood dreams of yesteryear?
‘No thanks,’ I reply stiffly. ‘I’m fine.’
I lurk in the hallway as he takes Beth into the other room.
I don’t have it in me to make any more small talk right now.
Even the way they are chatting together makes my hair stand on end.
She’s laughing, and why wouldn’t she? He’s very funny when he wants to be, is Rory.
And maybe she has daddy issues, thanks to Peter being a feckless wanker.
Oh God, I groan inside, I’ve even started using that phrase again…
They emerge from the kitchen, Beth carrying a glass of water.
Even the glass is interesting – old, probably hand-made, with the look of Murano.
The whole house is full of quirky items, art, found objects, stylish and unique and mismatched in a way that somehow works.
It’s the very opposite of a curated collection – more of an accidental exhibition of eccentric bits and pieces.
If I was anywhere else I’d be completely fascinated.
My house has some nice prints in frames, but is overwhelmingly done in the style of IKEA – it is a house I raised a child in, more substance than style. Function over looks.
I suddenly hate it, and vow to make some changes when I get home. Paint the whole place, make some new curtains, take inspiration from some of the things I’ve seen on this trip. I could do my entire bedroom out like a scene from Arabian Nights, just for fun. I wonder what Rory’s bedroom looks like?
No, I tell myself, I don’t. I have no business knowing what his bedroom looks like – though I’m guessing it’ll be a lot different than the one he used to share with his brother back in the day, which was split into two very distinct halves.
Rory’s side had Nirvana albums and a huge print of Klimt’s The Kiss, and later a collage of pictures of the two of us in Romeo and Juliet.
Callum’s had nothing but posters of Celtic FC and Britney Spears in her schoolgirl uniform.
God, Callum must be a grown-up too, now.
Frozen in time as a narky sixteen-year-old in my mind.
Beth has got her backpack over her shoulder, and Rory carries the bigger case up the stairs.
Even the stairs are interesting, the carpet a swirl of rust-reds and burgundies, the walls decorated with more art, paintings and sketches and technical drawings that somehow still look like things of beauty.
It takes us a while to make it all the way up to the landing, because Beth keeps stopping to admire them, and to talk to me about them.
‘Mum likes stuff like this,’ she tells him. ‘She wanted to be an artist when she grew up. Instead of what she is now.’
‘And what’s that?’ Rory asks, glancing back at me.
I have never felt duller in my entire life than when she replies: ‘She’s vice president of Boring Shit and Mindless Detail at an investment firm.’