Something Blue Read online

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Jack? Wha …what time is it? Are you all right? Oh God, have you told …?’

  ‘Mum, for goodness sake, what the hell are you rabbiting on about? What’s going on? You weren’t asleep, were you? It’s only half twelve.’

  ‘Sam? Yes, yes I was asleep. Fast asleep, very deeply asleep indeed, as a matter of fact – that sort of sleep where you have incredibly weird dreams and wake up babbling. Which is what I was doing then, you know, when I answered. Babbling. Because of this dream I was having about – about … er … Jack Straw, you know, the politician. I think.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’ He snorted with laughter. ‘Though if you ask me that was no dream – that was a nightmare.’

  ‘Pardon? … Oh yes, I see, darling. Very good, I’ll try and remember that. Anyway, what I mean is, don’t take any notice of what I said just then, absolutely none at all, I was just –‘

  ‘Sure. Anyway, thing is, Mum, I’ve got some news.’

  ‘News? What kind of …? Oh darling! Oh, that’s wonderful – I couldn’t be more delighted! I thought there was something behind your setting the date for the wedding so soon! I couldn’t be more thrilled! How’s Lucy? Not feeling too sick, I hope –’

  ‘Sick? Course not, Mum, she wanted this to get this sorted as much as I did. Thing is, I tried Google first –’

  ‘Google?’

  ‘But no joy. I don’t mind admitting, I was gutted. Then Lucy came up with the idea of trying Internet Directory Enquiries. I found him almost straight away. ‘

  ‘Found who, darling?’

  ‘Whom, Mum, found whom. Dad, of course … Mum? … You haven’t fallen asleep again, have you?’

  ‘No, Sam. No, I haven’t fallen asleep.’

  ‘Got straight through, once we’d found the number. Bit weird at first, course, but once I’d explained who I was and told him about the wedding, and Lucy, and everything, it was a piece of cake.’

  ‘Well, that’s … that’s … I’m sure he was absolutely … er … to hear you. Did he mention … me … at all?’

  ‘Yup – he asked how the designing was going these days. Told him you were running a coffee bar in Brighton.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Would have said culinary advisor if I’d been thinking straight, but I was feeling a bit – well, just a touch –’

  ‘Of course you were, darling. Anybody would have in your position. So, what did he…?’

  ‘Actually, I thought he sounded quite pleased. Anyway, got to go, Mum, Lucy’s expecting a call from Tina, there’s a bit of a problem about the choir boys’ socks.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Right. See you at Chez Gaston next week. Don’t be late, Mum, and don’t forget – no swearing and no jokes.’

  ‘Jawohl, mein Kapitän.’

  ‘Great. Lots of love. Bye.’

  ‘Sam! Wait! What did he say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your … your …’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Sorry, darling, frog in my throat … Tony. Your father … Dad.’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. He’s coming. Going to send him an official invitation as soon as they’re printed. Gotta go, Mum, Tina’ll get very upset if she can’t get through.’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘Sorry, darling. Love you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sam –’

  ‘Mum. Laters.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘God, that feels fantastic …’

  Anna sighed with pleasure as Jack circled her nipples with feather-light kisses and began to move down her body, licking slowly as he went. They hadn’t even bothered to eat the chicken salad sandwiches when he arrived, and he’d dispensed with the Donne altogether, ripping off her clothes almost the moment he walked in. It could only be a good sign. Apart from a quick phone call confirming that he could make it this lunchtime, they hadn’t had a chance to talk since that last hideous meeting, when she’d thrown her wine at him. She winced at the memory. What on earth had got into her? How could she possibly have behaved so badly? How could she have been so heartless about the trouble he’d be in when he got home? Even worse – how could she have misjudged him so badly? Because he hadn’t given so much as a monkey’s cuss about sodding Ruth’s reaction – he’d said so! And he really did want to come to Ireland with her – he’d said that too.

  He was nuzzling her thighs, making appreciative noises. Fabulous. He must have got Ireland sorted out – he’d have told her as soon as he arrived otherwise.

  ‘Mmm, you taste of vanilla, angel. Scrumptious …’

  Jack slid a finger inside her. Anna shifted slightly on the cold tiles, wishing she could make him see that it was a lot more comfortable for her if they made love on the rug in front of the dresser when the kitchen was the venue. For some reason (something to do with Lawrence, and spontaneity, though she couldn’t remember exactly what) he always preferred to pull her down beside the dishwasher. Still, at least the music was romantic. A Schumann symphony had been playing on the radio when he arrived, and it was just coming to an end. Meanwhile, he was kissing her again, and doing inventive things with his hands. She moaned. After a while, he moved on top of her. She was dimly aware of the music coming to an end, and a plummy male voice introducing the next programme as Jack entered her. She wrapped her legs tightly round him and closed her eyes, lost to everything but him now,

  Suddenly he stopped moving.

  ‘… which opens at Stratford in August …’

  ‘Jack?’

  He lay motionless, letting her take the full weight of his body. It hurt. She opened her eyes – what on earth was wrong? Surely he couldn’t have come already, especially now he’d got the hang of the counting trick she’d taught him?

  ‘… to tell us about the music. Also in the studio today we have Lara Tompkinson-Smythe, the well-known costume designer, whose interpretations will be generating considerable interest, Lara, since apparently these “costumes” will be practically non-existent, even for the main rôles, or parts, should I say, ha ha, forgive me – such as Oberon and Titania. Indeed, I think I’m right in saying they’ll consist only of body paint – and precious little of that, if reports are true?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Armand. You see, my thinking is …’

  Jack reared up, and stared wildly round the kitchen, face flushed, eyes bulging. Was he having a stroke? She clutched at him. ‘Jack – please, darling – what is it? Where does it hurt? Shall I call an ambul –’

  He rolled off her with a squelch and sat up. ‘Jesus Christ – she’ll hear it! She always has Culture Carousel on while she whips through the bloody Mensa crossword!’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘Ye gods, it was bad enough when she thought I was planning a pub crawl. If she thinks I was after an eyeful of tits and bums too I’ll never hear the end of it! She’ll have my dick on a fucking stick…’

  Anna sat up slowly. ‘By “she”, you mean –’

  He glared at her. ‘Ruth, of course!’ He put a hand protectively over his now shrivelled penis.

  ‘But why on earth should she think –’

  ‘Because I told her I was going to Stratford for the weekend to see their poxy production of puke-making fucking Dream, didn’t I!’

  Anna gave a whoop. ‘But that’s a great idea. I could come too! We could –’

  He groaned. ‘Anna, I’m not really going. I never had any intention of going. It was just an excuse to get me a weekend pass so I could go to Ireland with you.’

  She threw her arms round him. ‘Jack! Darling! I knew you’d do it! Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

  He pulled away from her. ‘It’s no go, angel. Fell at the first hurdle, I’m afraid. Told her I was going with Rod, to pick up a few tips for the school prod. She went berserk – made it clear she thought we were just going for a beer-fest. The fact I had the best part of a bottle of red down my front did
n’t exactly help matters. Wouldn’t be surprised if the cow’s already phoned AA for some advice.’

  ‘You mean … you aren’t coming?’

  ‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell.’

  She sprang to her feet. ‘But I was counting on you, Jack! Trust me, that’s what you said.’ She began to pull on her clothes.

  ‘Anna, darling …’

  She shook her head mutely.

  ‘Angel, don’t let this come between us!’ He jumped up. ‘You don’t know how much I wanted –’

  ‘Oh, I think I know exactly what you wanted, Jack. You didn’t even bother to eat your chicken sandwiches first. Shame really, I thought they looked quite good.’

  ‘Darling, you’re not being fair.’ He plucked a sandwich from the plate and took a huge bite. ‘Look, I’m eating one now. Mmm, delicious.’

  ‘Not being fair?’ She tried to fasten her bra. ‘You think it was fair to let me assume everything was all right when you arrived with a smile on your face and a bloody great bunch of roses under your arm? Was it fair to make love to me as if everything was hunky-dory when all the time you knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of your coming with me?’ With a sob she snatched up the flowers, snapped their stems in half and shoved them in the rubbish bin. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jack – Tony’s coming. Sam phoned to tell me last night!’ She burst into a storm of tears. ‘How the hell am I going to …? I just don’t think I can … I … you … he …’

  Jack stood biting his lip for a moment, then suddenly, his face cleared. ‘Angel, if you’d just given me a minute to finish that sentence. What I meant to say – what I was trying to say – was there isn’t a chance in hell yet. That’s it exactly. In a nutshell. My point precisely. Not yet.’

  Anna wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and gazed at him, eyes bright with hope. ‘Not … yet? Jack? Do you mean …?’

  ‘I mean it’s never over till the fat lady sings, OK, angel?’ He took a step towards her. ‘Just give me a bit more time, that’s all. I’ll think of something.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Count on me.’

  Jack … darling.’ She was in his arms. ‘I’m so sorry! I should never have doubted you. You must think I’m an absolute –’

  ‘Whoops! Now look what you made me do.’ He glanced down at himself with a rueful smile. ‘Looks like there’s a bit of unfinished business here, too…’

  Smiling tenderly, he pulled her down onto the tiles.

  After Jack left, Anna was on her way back to the coffee bar when she stopped short in the hall. She went to the kitchen and retrieved the roses from the bin, trimmed the broken stems, found a vase, arranged the roses.

  Placing them carefully in the middle of the table, she set off at a run for the bus stop.

  Happy.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Declan turned off the main road into a side street lined with pebble-dashed council houses in varying stages of dilapidation. The straggly lime trees dotted along the uneven pavement served only to underline the air of general poverty. He’d been reluctant to accept the assignment when McGinty rang, but years of professional discipline had kicked in. He didn’t need telling it would be the beginning of a very slippery slope indeed – once he started trying to avoid assignments he thought might be painful there was no telling where it would end. Anyway, sweet Mary and Joseph! Just because the kid at the swimming bath had upset him was no reason to start avoiding schools. Plus the talk was for kids – they weren’t exactly going to be flashing up gut-wrenching images.

  Time to get a grip, and just get on with the job.

  He saw a sign ahead on his right: St Michael’s Primary School PLEASE KILL YOUR SPEED. He slowed, and turned into a drive that led over tarmac in such a state of disrepair he feared the van’s big end might go again to a cluster of low buildings. The buildings looked as if they’d been knocked up from flat-pack kits, all glass and right angles and pale blue panels, cheap materials that were holding up badly in the damp; scaffolding and a workmen’s hut near the entrance showed that major repairs were under way. Declan parked the van beside a battered Morris Minor with a sticker that informed him in bright yellow letters that Jesus Loved Him.,

  He got out and began to unload his gear. To his right, the asphalt gave way to the rough turf of a playing field; a great many small boys were running about screaming and kicking footballs while a harassed young man in a striped jersey chased after them shouting instructions and blowing a whistle. The teacher waved a hand to Declan who gave a thumbs-up in return, relieved that the staff were expecting him. As Declan watched, the sun came out, and he narrowed his eyes, revelling in the bright flashes of colour blurred by movement. After a moment, he glanced at his watch. Eleven fifteen. He was booked for eleven thirty; better check in at reception. Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he headed for the school’s glass entrance doors.

  The reception area – pale green, and smelling of plimsolls and disinfectant – was empty; but a glance at a brightly lettered sign on the noticeboard informed him that the talk on road safety was being given in the hall, the entrance to which was at the end of the corridor. There was bound to be someone there who could tell him where he should go. An exhibition of collages captioned ‘Our Pets’ had been taped to the walls. It looked as though boa constrictors and eagles were popular until he saw from the labels that the boa constrictors were enthusiastically rendered grass snakes, the eagles, outsized budgerigars. He was grinning when he pushed open the double doors and entered the hall.

  Small children sat cross-legged in rows on the floor gazing with rapt attention at the young teacher, and a blackboard on which the Safe Cross Code was written out in bright red capitals. The teacher – with her coppery curls and short denim skirt he reckoned she looked hardly older than the kids – wore a glove puppet in the shape of a mop-haired small boy on her right hand, and a cross-eyed and extremely stupid-looking rabbit on her left. Boy puppet was quizzing rabbit puppet on the code; the rabbit was either squeaking the wrong answers or affecting to be unable to answer at all. In both cases, the kids were screeching the correct answers at the tops of their voices, to the teacher’s approval. Two or three women were seated at the back of the hall, watching the proceedings. The plump one nearest Declan (whose iron-grey hair and fawn cardigan reminded him strongly of his mother) stood up as he approached, smiling as she saw the camera slung round his neck. ‘Well now, young man. You’ll be the photographer, I expect?’

  He smiled back. ‘Declan O’Halloran, Galway Gazette.’

  ‘Shena McCarthy, headteacher. Now, we’ll be done here soon.’ She held up her hands in mock horror at a particularly vociferous roar from the kids. ‘I mustn’t complain. They’re loving every minute, bless them, and to be sure there’s nothing more important than teaching them road safety. Now, as I said, we’re almost finished here. Shall we be going to the playground where the cyclists are going to be giving their little demonstration? And where the awards are going to be presented, of course.’ Leaning down, she whispered something in her colleague’s ear, then set off like a galleon in full sail towards the hall doors. Declan followed her obediently down the corridor, through reception and outside once more. A right turn took them past the bike shed to the deserted playground, where a fitful sun shone on a small table covered with a dark red baize cloth on which rows of badges and certificates had been neatly laid out.

  Mrs McCarthy surveyed the scene with satisfaction, and turned to Declan. ‘There. I always think scarlet adds a sense of occasion, don’t you? Well, I’ll leave you to get yourself sorted out. Will I be asking one of the dinner ladies to bring you out a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thank you – that would be very kind.’

  ‘Our special guest is due any moment. I’ll just introduce him to the children, and we’ll be finished before you know it.’

  She glanced up at the sky. ‘We’ve certainly been blessed with a beautiful morning. Makes you feel good to be alive, doesn’t it?’ She trotted away.

  Declan s
et his bag down beside the table, took a light meter from a side pocket and paced around, selecting the best spots for shooting the forthcoming cycling demonstration and awards presentation. The weather was, for the moment at least, perfect for the shoot.

  ‘Mr O’Hare?’

  He turned. A woman in a green overall with the smallest eyes he’d ever seen, set in a face the colour and consistency of suet, was standing beside him. She proffered a cup and saucer, the pale brown liquid in the cup overflowing liberally onto the garibaldi biscuit perched in the saucer. Something told him not to bother her with his correct name. ‘Thank you, that’s extremely –’

  ‘Mrs McCarthy says you’re the photo man from the paper. Sure, and that must be an interesting job. So…’ She edged closer. ‘Have ye ever photoed anyone famous, like?’

  Declan was about to ask her politely to fuck off and let him get on with his work when he saw that beneath her wrinkled lisle stockings her legs were heavily bandaged from swollen knees to misshapen ankles. Parts of the yellowing crêpe were stained where some sort of ointment had seeped through. Jesus. He took the cup and thanked her, racking his brains to think of something that might make the long, painful trudge from kitchen to playground worth her while.

  ‘Yup. Few days ago, matter of fact.’

  Her eyes lit up.

  ‘Brett Love. New doctor in Heartbreak Hospital?’

  ‘Mary Mother of Jesus. Brett Love?’ She crossed herself clumsily, eyes bulging with excitement. ‘Ye never.’

  He took a sip of coffee. ‘Wow. Great. Thanks.’ He slipped the dry half of the biscuit into his mouth and chewed hard, hoping it would take away the taste. ‘Yeah, met Brett not long ago, actually.’

  He was about to tell her about Brett’s suspiciously orange tan, his refusal to sign autographs for the waiting crowd at the supermarket, and his inability to cut the yellow ribbon because his hand was shaking so much (which Declan was damn sure wasn’t on account of his nerves), when he saw the eager expectancy on her face. So he told her instead about Brett’s fabulous stretch limo, and his really sharp suit, and his absolutely enormous diamond pinky ring. His reward was in the sigh of pleasure with which this information was greeted.