‘Ha! I suspect fate is a drunk driver… but yes. Okay. I can do that. I’ll stay, Rory… but I warn you, I’ll absolutely destroy you atMastermind…’
‘Fighting talk, Jane Matthews,’ he replies, a gleam in his green eyes. ‘Would you care for a wee bet, make it interesting? I’m sure I can think of something you can do for me…’
He catches me up in his arms, and kisses me before I can reply. It’s a good kiss. Very thorough, extremely accomplished. The kind that leaves me hanging on to his shoulders and trembling slightly by the end.
‘That,’ he says, taking in my flushed state, ‘is my specialist subject.’
NINETEEN
RORY
Over the next few days it feels like we get lost in some kind of time-slip. We manage to be both lazy and busy, easily aroused and incredibly calm. There is a lot of sex, and it is phenomenal. But there is also a lot of companionship – walking, talking, simply being. I persuade her to paint with me in the studio, and I adore the way she hesitated but eventually agreed. She is talented, and it is a joy to see her get in touch with that side of herself again.
We go for drives and journeys, I show her more of our beautiful corner of the world, and I take her out on theJuliet. A pod of dolphins frolicked alongside us as we sailed through calm waters and out to one of the rocky islands to watch the seals.
It’s a joy to study her face on days like that, to see the look of awe spread across her pretty features, the shine of amazement in her eyes. I spend more time looking at her than I do the wildlife around us, because to me, she is the thing of wonder. Even when she’s beating me at quiz shows – because she was right, she absolutely destroyed me atMastermind– or washing the dishes or sitting at the table doing paperwork, she astounds me.
Every now and then, she’ll glance up from whatever she’s doing, catch me out. ‘What are you looking at, Rory Callaghan?’she’d said the other night, while she was replying to work emails, tapping away on her laptop with the concentrated expression she always gets when she’s doing something important. That’s one of the things I like about the new Jane – whatever she’s up to, she gives it her all. The grant application for the gallery, the search for an artist, her actual job. She goes at them all a hundred per cent. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to stare?’
‘My mammy, as you well know, has only a vague notion of what other people class as rude, and she gives not one single damn about them anyway.’
I’d felt a twinge then, an emotional poke in the eye – I still haven’t quite gotten used to the idea that my parents were responsible for our break-up. It will pass, I know, I love my mother dearly, but it is still a thing to be worked through.
She’d known this, and immediately jumped up from her spot at the table, and come to sit on my lap. As distractions went, it was highly effective, and naked shenanigans ensued. As they often do, it seems.
Despite the good times we’ve been having, I know she’s still holding back. She’s still shut down in ways I can’t change, closed off in places I can’t reach. I have to accept that, because it was part of the deal. I keep telling myself that’s okay, that’s all good, but I’m not really sure it is. Every time I think of her leaving, my heart threatens to explode in my chest. This is my home, and I love it. I love the beauty of this place, I love the bookshop, I love Moira and all my friends here. But I’m starting to think that I would leave it all behind if she wanted me to – I would follow her to the ends of the earth.
Damn. I am not doing well at this whole leaving it to fate thing. I also know that if I let her see exactly how strong my feelings are, she might leave. Possibly move house, get a fake passport, and relocate to the jungles of Peru. And she mightbe right to do that, because I’m not a complete idiot – I know that the way I feel right now isn’t balanced or normal or maybe even sustainable. We’re living in a bubble here – away from her reality, and mine now completely distorted by her presence. Plus Beth is away, and she’s the most important thing in Jane’s life and always will be. I need to slow down.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ she asks, from her seat next to me in the car. This morning, we are taking a drive to check out a scrap yard an hour away. The guy who runs it knows me, and tends to save up anything interesting he thinks I might be able to use. The project in Yorkshire is going ahead, and I’m always on the lookout for new materials – in this case an old cast-iron anchor. Jane is interested in the process, and wants to see how it all starts.
‘They’re not worth a penny,’ I reply, smiling at her as we wind through the hills. ‘They’re barely thoughts.’
I suspect she knows this is a fib, but she doesn’t push it. Ironically, part of our deal seems to involve accepting each other’s white lies as well as being honest.
I take the path upwards, looping behind the village, planning to rejoin the main road once we’ve completed the circuit. It’s a spectacular view, all the way down over Bonnie Bay, out to sea. She gazes out of the window and sighs. ‘It’s not the Tesco car park…’ she mutters, confusingly.
I glance across at her, and she shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about it… is thatMoira? At the side of the road?’
We’ve reached the junction where the smaller road merges onto the main route towards Aberdeen, and it’s very unusual to see anybody walking along here. There are far nicer footpaths to follow, and no decent pavements. I stare ahead, frowning, and see a small figure lurking at the edge of the carriageway.
‘I think it is,’ I mutter. ‘What the feck is she up to?’
I slow down as we approach, beeping my horn and eventually coming to a stop on the lay-by. I see the look on Moira’s face, and know her well enough to pick up on her disapproval. She is not pleased to see us, which would be a dent to the ego if I wasn’t so worried.
‘Off with you!’ she says, as I wind the window down. ‘Away on your business, man!’
She sounds impatient, annoyed, and pretty determined not to engage any further. She strides away in the opposite direction, and I turn the engine off. I share a confused look with Jane, who shakes her head. ‘That’s not right,’ she says simply. ‘We’d better see what’s going on, even if she doesn’t want us to.’
I nod my agreement, and we both get out of the car. Moira speeds up, actually trying to outpace us, which is even more concerning. ‘Oi!’ I shout as she shuffles away. ‘You there, in the bright green trainers! Stop pretending you can’t hear me!’
Jane starts to jog after her, and I join her. I didn’t expect to be chasing an eighty-four-year-old granny along the road this morning, for sure. She’s moving at a surprising clip for her age, but we still catch her up pretty quickly. When we do, I see that she is even more upset than I thought.
‘Can ye not mind your own business for once?’ she snaps, glaring at us both, hands on hips. She’s aiming for angry, but her wobbling lower lip is ruining the show. I haven’t seen Moira look like this – frustrated, anxious, lashing out – for a very long time. Not since the early days of her accident, when she was confined to a hospital bed and understandably unhappy with life.
‘No, it doesn’t look like I can,’ I reply, not budging an inch when she pokes me in the chest with a bony finger.
‘And neither can I, sadly,’ Jane adds, her voice soft and gentle despite the firmness of her words. ‘There’s obviously something wrong, and maybe we can help. What are you doing out here? Even I know this is strange.’
