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‘Sorry, what?’ She couldn’t fathom what he was saying. Was he joking?
‘Saoirse Maloney – you know, the school secretary.’ He was back to fiddling with the spoon, vigorously stirring the froth into his coffee.
‘I know who Saoirse Maloney is. But .?.?. I don’t understand. When?’
Did it really matter, the timing of it? Did she evenwantto know the when and where, or how much her husband had kissed the school secretary? But then, maybe those were easier answers to hear than what he might say if she asked the real question.
‘Ronan.’ Tears came, and she dashed them away impatiently with the back of her hand. ‘Ronan,why?’
‘Oh God. I dunno. Look, it just happened. It was at that back-to-school barbecue. I drank too much. I dropped the ball.’
‘You dropped the ball?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He looked up at her then. ‘I asked you to come. Remember?’
She did remember. It was true that he had asked her to go and that she’d said she couldn’t face making small talk, that she’d rather stay home and hot wax her legs, literally. She remembered the night quite clearly; it was only three weeks ago. She actually had hot waxed her legs and curled up in bed withThe Fortnight in Septemberand a giant bar of caramello. She’d been half asleep when Ronan got home. He’d come upstairs, kissed her cheek and said goodnight, but he went downstairs again to make tea and watch telly.
Was he saying it was her fault? She couldn’t seem to formulate a sentence, so just nodded her head. Yes, she remembered.
They sat, both of them, in rigid suspense.
‘Monsieur!’ A husky voice broke into their silence. It was the unfriendly-looking woman, offering a plate across the bar. Ronan leaped up, knocking Claire’s coffee as he stood.
‘Sorry,’ he said automatically, and walked away. He seemed to take his time at the counter, paying and thanking the woman profusely.
Claire, meanwhile, dabbed at the spilled coffee with a paper napkin that was too cheap and shiny to have any effect.
Eventually, he came back. He found a space for the plate away from the spillage. ‘She said she went to the bakery and bought these for us,’ he said.
There were two slices of baguette lying side by side, each smeared with butter and purple jam, and two croissants hugging one another.
‘That was kind of her.’
Claire looked over to offer thanks, but the woman was facing away, engrossed in the football match.
‘Claire?’
‘God, I’m still starving. If this was a film now, I wouldn’t be able to even look at food, would I?’
She bit into a slice of bread. It was perfect: soft crumb, crispy crust, butter cold against her teeth, and the sharp jam all juicy and sweet. It was good. But she found she couldn’t swallow. She chewed the bread until it dissolved to a sugary pulp in her mouth. She lifted her coffee cup to her mouth, but there was hardly one tepid slug left in it. She gulped it down.
‘Claire.’
‘What?’
‘It just happened. I was coming out of the toilet, and she was going in, and we bumped into each other. She tripped, like, and I sort of – I dunno, it just .?.?.’
‘Stop.’
‘Will you let me explain?’
‘No.’
‘Honest to God, it was nothing. I love you. You know I love you.’
