‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ he tells me, peeping through the narrow slit in the doorway. ‘But do you have a minute?’
I open the door a bit more to respond.
‘Me? You mean youdowant to discuss something with Mabel’s nosey neighbour after all?’ I say, enjoying my upper hand now. ‘You’re really digging a hole with your arrogance, Mr Murphy, pardon the pun.’
He at least has the grace to shudder at his earlier insult.
‘OK, OK, I’m sorry for calling you a nosey neighbour,’ he says, extending a cold, damp hand. Again, I open the door a little wider, I shake his hand, and a waft of very expensive aftershave mixes in the cold air. ‘I’m Aidan. Aidan Murphy.’
‘I know exactly who you are,’ I remind him. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Aidan Murphy.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ he sings in return. ‘You probably know more about me than I know myself right now, and at that I’m not joking.’
Even though he is haughty and cold in stature, now that I see him out of the flurry of snow I can tell he is indeed a very, very handsome man and a lot older than he was in the photo that has sat on Mabel’s mantelpiece for as long as I’ve been here. He’s about at least forty years old now, I guess, noticing the fine lines around his dark eyes. He looks so much like Peter, Mabel’s late husband, but from what I’ve seen so far he has none of his uncle’s manners or charm.
‘You spoke well at the service,’ I say to him jutting out my chin and folding my arms, knowing I can’t deny him that. ‘You’re a good speaker and can surely tug on emotions for someone who is so hard-hearted.’
He looks different now in his jeans and navy rain jacket, a far contrast from the slick black suit he wore for the funeral mass on Thursday. I know I should really ask him inside, but I just can’t let him away with his initial approach so easily. Mabel would hate to see my stubborn streak or old anxieties creep through, especially now – especially with her precious Aidan.
‘Thank you, that’s – that’s kind of you to say,’ he says, looking through the snow at the adjacent garden of the semi-detached cottage. ‘Look, if you don’t mind I just need to talk to you about something and then I’ll be out of yourhair again for good. I’m not planning on hanging around Ballybray for any longer than I have to.’
I open the door properly and try to figure out this stranger who can barely hold eye contact with me. For someone so hugely successful in New York, he is severely lacking on people skills, but I refuse to stoop to his level, so I remember my manners.
‘You’re freezing.’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Or some stew? You look like you’re frozen through.’
It’s a no, just as I’d imagined it might be, but at least I tried.
‘No thanks, this won’t take long,’ he says, wiping his feet on the mat.
He steps into my hallway, closes the door, and I lead him past the living room where my son still sleeps off his sadness, and into the kitchen, proud of the warm, homely smell that fills the air.
My house may be small and old in comparison to whatever mansion or posh New York apartment he lives in, but I always pride myself in making a house a home with warm colours, mouth-watering smells, and a cosy atmosphere.
‘It’s Mabel’s own recipe for Irish Stew,’ I explain to him, even though he isn’t remotely interested and didn’t ask what’s cooking. ‘She insisted on writing it down for me once, even though it’s the simplest thing to make in the world, but I only wish she’d passed on the secret of how hers always tasted nicer than my version ever will!’
I point towards her handwriting on the fridge and he leans closer to read it, his eyes quickly scanning across the gallery of photos that hang on to their place beside it with alphabet magnets. As he does so, I allow myself to take in his handsome physique, his hair damp from the snow, and I feel my hormones flutter at his good looks, but the feeling leaves me as quickly as it came. I am very, very much done with letting any man interfere with the life I plan on having here – just me and my son, where no one will ever hurt us or leave us again.
He stands up straight, having seen enough of my patchwork of photos from down memory lane.
‘Can I take your coat?’ I ask him, catching his dark eyes in direct contact properly now. ‘You’ll get a chill.’
He looks almost as tired as I am, dark under the eyes and his face pale and a little gaunt. Jet-lagged too, no doubt, and grieving, I suppose, in his own way.
‘It’s OK,’ he says, still taking in his surroundings. ‘I can’t really stay long.’
He shuffles a bit, and I pull out a chair at the kitchen table for him to take a seat, inwardly apologizing to Mabel for our bumpy start and hoping it can only get better.
‘Look, Roisin, I’m not here on a social visit,’ he tells me quickly. ‘So I’ll cut to the chase.’
‘I think I’ve already guessed that.’
‘I’ve a lot of loose ends to tie up here and my plan is to do so and get back to New York as soon as I can.’
He shifts in his chair as if his skin is crawling, emphasizing that being in Ballybray is the last thing he wants right now.
He has property in Dublin, I know from Mabel’s bragging, but I imagine he and his wife are staying in some plush hotel like the Westbury or the Merrion, in luxurious surroundings, a far cry from his much more modest beginnings here. His very beautiful wife, who Mabel incidentally couldn’t stand, is no doubt relaxing in a spa right now while he does his mundane business here in the backwaters, and they’ll have dinner by candlelight at seven and long to escape Ireland back to the glamour of their real life in New York City.
‘I’ve just this minute discovered that Mabel has left us some sort of package to open after she died,’ he says, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘So I didn’t want to open it without letting you know, as it’s very clearly addressed to us both.’
