“Stop it!” they say in unison.
“Oh, my God,” Justin whispers.
“What? You’ve never seen a pink pinstripe before? It’s divine. Worn with this pink shirt and this pink tie—perfection. Oh, Al, I wish you’d wear suits like this.”
“I prefer the blue,” Al disagrees. “The pink is a bit gay. Or maybe that’s a good idea in case she turns out to be a disaster. You can tell her your boyfriend’s waiting for you. I can back you up on that,” he offers.
Doris ignores her husband. “See, isn’t this so much better than that other thing you were wearing? Justin? Earth to Justin? What are you looking at? Oh, she’s pretty.”
“That’s Joyce,” he whispers, staring at the other side of the store. He once read that a blue-throated hummingbird has a heart rate of one thousand two hundred and sixty beats per minute, and he wondered how anything could survive that. He understands now. With each beat, his heart pushes out blood and sends it flowing around his body. He feels his entire body throb and pulsate in his neck, wrists, heart, stomach.
“That’s Joyce?” Doris asks, shocked. “The phone woman? Well, she looks…normal. What do you think, Al?”
Al looks to where they’ve been staring and nudges his brother. “Yeah, she looks real normal. You should ask her out once and for all.”
“Why are you both so surprised she looks normal?” Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“Well, sweetie, the very fact that she exists is a surprise.” Doris snorts. “The fact that she’s pretty is damn near a miracle. Go on, ask her out for dinner tonight.”
“I can’t tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got the opera!”
“Opera shopera. Who cares about that?”
“You have been talking about it nonstop for over a week. And now it’s opera shopera?” Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“Well, I didn’t want to alarm you before, but I was thinking about it on the plane ride over, and”—she takes a deep breath and touches his arm gently—“it can’t be Jennifer Aniston. It’s just going to be some old lady sitting in the front row waiting for you with a bouquet of flowers that you don’t even want, or some overweight guy with bad breath. Sorry, Al, I don’t mean you.”
Justin’s heart beats the speed of a hummingbird’s heart, his mind now at the speed of its wings. He can barely think; everything is happening too fast. Joyce, far more beautiful up close than he remembers, her newly short hair soft around her face. She is beginning to move away now. He has to do something quick. Think, think, think!
“Ask her out for tomorrow night,” Al suggests.
“I can’t! My exhibition is tomorrow.”
“Skip it. Call in sick.”
“I can’t, Al! I’ve been working on it for months. I’m the damn curator, I have to be there.” Thump-thump, thump-thump.
“If you don’t ask her out, I will.” Doris pushes him.
“She’s busy with her friends.”
Joyce starts to leave.
Do something!
“Joyce!” Doris calls out.
“Jesus Christ.” Justin tries to turn round and run in the other direction, but both Al and Doris block him.
“Justin Hitchcock,” a voice says loudly, and he stops trying to break through their barrier and slowly turns round. One of the women standing beside Joyce looks familiar. She has a baby in a stroller beside her.
“Justin Hitchcock,” the woman says again and reaches out her hand. “Kate McDonald.” She shakes his hand firmly. “I was at your talk last week at the National Gallery. It was incredibly interesting. I didn’t know you knew Joyce.” She smiles brightly and elbows Joyce. “Joyce, you never said! I was at Justin Hitchcock’s talk just last week! Remember I told you? The painting about the woman and the letter? And the fact that she was writing it?”
Joyce’s eyes are wide and startled. She looks from her friend to Justin and back again.
“She doesn’t know me, exactly,” Justin finally speaks up, and feels a slight tremble in his voice. So much adrenaline is surging through him, he feels he’s about to take off like a rocket through the department store’s roof. “We’ve passed each other on many occasions but never had the opportunity to meet properly.” He holds out his hand. “Joyce, I’m Justin.”
She reaches out to take his hand, and static electricity rushes through as they get a quick shock from each other.
They both let go quickly. “Whoa!” She pulls back and cradles her hand in the other, as though burned.
“Oooh,” Doris sings.
“It’s static electricity, Doris. Caused when the air and materials are dry. They should use a humidifier in here,” Justin says like a robot, not moving his eyes from Joyce’s face.
Frankie cocks her head and tries not to laugh. “Charming.”
“I tell him that all the time,” Doris says.
After a moment, Joyce extends her hand again to finish the handshake properly. “Sorry, I just got a—”
“That’s okay, I got it too.” He smiles.
“Nice to meet you, finally,” she says.
They remain holding hands, just staring at each other.
Doris clears her throat noisily. “I’m Doris, his sister-in-law.”
She reaches diagonally over Justin and Joyce’s handshake to greet Frankie.
“I’m Frankie.”
They shake hands. While doing so, Al reaches over diagonally to shake hands with Kate. It becomes a hand-shaking marathon as they all greet at once, Justin and Joyce finally releasing their grip.
“Would you like to go for dinner tonight with Justin?” Doris blurts out.
“Tonight?” Joyce’s mouth drops.
“She would love to,” Frankie answers for her.
“Tonight, though?” Justin turns to face Doris with wide eyes.
“Oh, it’s no problem, Al and I want to eat alone anyway.” She nudges him. “No point being the gooseberry.” She smiles.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stick to your other plans tonight?” Joyce says, slightly confused.
“Oh, no.” Justin shakes his head. “I’d love to have dinner with you. Unless of course you have plans?”
Joyce turns to Frankie. “Tonight? I have that thing, Frankie…”
“Oh, no, don’t be silly. It doesn’t really make a difference, now, does it?” Frankie waves her hand dismissively. “We can have drinks any other time.” She smiles sweetly at Justin. “So where are you taking her?”
“The Shelbourne Hotel?” Doris says. “At eight?”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to eat there.” Kate sighs. “Eight suits her fine,” she responds.
Justin looks at Joyce. “Does it?”
Joyce seems to consider this, her mind ticking at the same rate as his heart.
“You’re absolutely sure you’re happy to cancel your other plans for tonight?” Frown lines appear on her forehead. Her eyes bore into his, and guilt overcomes him as he thinks of whoever it is he’ll be standing up. He gives a single nod and is unsure of how convincing he seems.
Sensing this, Doris begins to pull him away. “Well, it was wonderful to meet you all, but we really better get back to shopping. Nice to meet you, Kate, Frankie, Joyce sweetie.” She gives her a quick hug. “Enjoy dinner. At eight. Shelbourne Hotel. Don’t forget, now.”
“Red or black?” Joyce holds up the two dresses to Justin, just before he turns.
He considers this carefully. “Red.”
“Black it is, then.” She smiles, mirroring their first and only conversation from the hair salon, the first day they met.
He laughs and allows Doris to drag him away.
Chapter 38
WHAT THE HELL DID YOU do that for, Doris?” Justin asks as they walk back toward their hotel.
“You’ve gone on and on about this woman for weeks, and now you’ve finally got a date with her. What’s so wrong with that?”
“I have plans tonight! I can’t just stand this other person up.”
“You don’t even know who it is!”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s still rude.”
“Justin, seriously, listen to me. This whole thank-you message thing could honestly be somebody playing a cruel joke.”
He narrows his eyes with suspicion. “You think?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Doris and Justin slow down, noticing that Al has begun to pant.
“Would you rather risk going to something where you have no idea what or who to expect? Or go to dinner with a pretty lady, one you have been thinking about for weeks?”
“Come on,” Al joins in, “when was the last time you were this interested in anyone?”
Justin smiles.
“So, bro, what’s it gonna be?”
“You should really take something for that heartburn, Mr. Conway,” I can hear Frankie telling Dad in the kitchen.
“Like what?” Dad asks, enjoying the company of two young ladies. “Poteen?”
They all laugh, and I hear Sam’s babbling echo around the kitchen.
“By the way, Mr. Conway, there’s something about that night in question that I wanted to tell you about.”
“Is there now?” Dad responds.
“All this time you thought it was me who made Joyce drink the poteen, but in truth, it was Frankie! Ha!” Kate says, clapping her hands.
“Frankie told me you’d blame her,” Dad says.
“What?” Kate screeches, and I hear Frankie’s laughter.
“It’s a long time ago now since it all happened, so how’s about you just own up to it and be thankful you didn’t do Joyce too much damage,” Dad adds, sounding like the father who dominated my teenage years.
“Okay, I’m coming!” I call down the stairs, interrupting what could become an explosive argument.
“Yahooo!” Frankie hollers.
“I’ve got the camera ready!” Kate calls back.
Dad starts making trumpet noises as I walk down the stairs. I look at Mum’s photo on the hall table, maintaining eye contact with her all the way as she stares up at me. I wink at her as I pass.
As soon as I step into the hall and turn to the three of them in the kitchen, they all go quiet.
My smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Joyce,” Frankie whispers, “you look beautiful.”
I sigh with relief and join them in the kitchen.
“Do a twirl.” Kate films me with the video camera.
I spin in my new red dress while Sam claps his chubby hands.
“Mr. Conway, you haven’t said anything!” Frankie nudges him. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
We all turn to face Dad, who has gone silent, his eyes filled with tears. He nods up and down quickly, but no words come out.
“Oh, Dad”—I reach out and wrap my arms around him—“it’s only a dress.”
“You look beautiful, love,” he manages to say. “Go get him, kiddo.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and hurries into the living room, embarrassed by his emotion.
“So,” Frankie says, “have you decided whether it’s going to be dinner or the opera tonight?”
“I still don’t know.”
“He asked you out to dinner,” Kate says. “Why do you think he’d rather go to the opera?”
“Because firstly, he didn’t ask me out for dinner. His sister-in-law did. And I didn’t say yes. You did.” I glare at Kate. “I think it’s killing him not knowing whose life he saved. He didn’t seem so convinced about our date before he left the shop, did he?”
“Stop reading so much into it,” Frankie says. “He asked you out, so go out.”
“Yeah,” Kate agrees. “He seemed to really want you at that dinner. And anyway, why can’t you just come clean and tell him that it’s you?”
“My way of coming clean was supposed to be him seeing me at the opera. This was going to be it, the night he found out.”
“So go to dinner and tell him that it was you all along.”
“But what if he goes to the opera?”
We talk in circles for a while longer, and when they leave, I discuss the pros and cons of both situations with myself until my head is spinning so much I can’t think anymore. When the taxi arrives, Dad walks me to the door.
“I don’t know what you girls were in such deep conversation about, but I know you’ve to make a decision about something. Have you made it?” Dad asks softly.
“I don’t know, Dad.” I swallow hard. “I still don’t know what the right decision is.”
“Of course you do. You always take your own route, love. You always have.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks out to the garden. “See that trail there?”
“The garden path?”
He shakes his head and points to a track in the lawn where the grass has been trampled on and the soil is slightly visible beneath. “You made that path.”
“What?” I’m confused now.
“As a little girl.” He smiles. “We call them ‘desire lines’ in the gardening world. They’re the tracks and trails that people make for themselves. You’ve always avoided the paths laid down by other people, love. You’ve always gone your own way, found your own way, even if you do eventually get to the same point as everybody else. You’ve never taken the official route.” He chuckles. “No, indeed you haven’t. You’re certainly your mother’s daughter, cutting corners, creating spontaneous paths, while I stick to the routes and make my way the long way round.”
We both study the small well-worn ribbon of grass.
“Desire lines,” I repeat, seeing myself as a little girl, as a teenager, a grown woman, cutting across that patch each time. “I suppose desire isn’t linear. There is no straightforward way of going where you want.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do now?” he asks as the taxi arrives.
I kiss him on his forehead. “I do.”
Chapter 39
I STEP OUT OF THE taxi at Stephen’s Green and immediately see the crowds flowing toward the Gaiety Theatre, all dressed in their finest for the National Irish Opera’s production. I have never been to an opera before, have only ever seen one on television, and my heart, tired of a body that can’t keep up with it, is pounding to run into the building itself. I’m filled with nerves, with anticipation, and with the greatest hope I have ever felt in my life that the final part of my plan will come together. I’m terrified that Justin will be angry that it’s me, though why he would be? I’ve run a hundred different scenarios in my head, and I can’t seem to come to any rational conclusion.
I stand halfway between the Shelbourne Hotel and the Gaiety Theatre, no less than three hundred yards between them. I look from one to the other and then close my eyes, not caring how stupid I look in the middle of the road as people pass by me. I wait to feel the pull. Which way to go. Right to the Shelbourne. Left to the Gaiety. My heart drums in my chest.
I turn to the left and stride confidently toward the theater. Inside the bustling foyer, I purchase a program and make my way to my seat. No time for pre-performance drinks; if he shows up early and finds me not here, I’ll never forgive myself. Front-row tickets—I could not believe my luck, but had called the very moment the tickets had gone on sale to secure these precious seats.
I take my seat in the red velvet chairs, my red dress falling down on either side of me, my purse on my lap, Kate’s shoes glistening on the floor before me. The orchestra is directly in front of me, tuning and rehearsing, dressed in appropriate black for their underworld of sounds.
The atmosphere is magical, with thousands of people buzzing with excitement, the orchestra fine-tuning, the air rich with perfumes and aftershaves, pure honey.
I look to my right at the empty chair and shiver with excitement.
An announcement explains that the performance will begin in five minutes, that those who are late will be forbidden entry until a break, but will be able to stay outside and watch the performance on the screens until
intermission.
Hurry, Justin, hurry, I plead, my legs bouncing beneath me with nerves.
Justin speed-walks from his hotel and up Kildare Street. He’s just taken a shower, but his skin feels moist again already, his shirt sticking to his back, his forehead glistening with sweat. He stops walking at the top of the road. The Shelbourne Hotel is directly beside him, the Gaiety Theatre two hundred yards to his right.
He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. Breathes in the fresh October air of Dublin.
Which way to go? Which way to go?
The performance has begun, and I cannot take my eyes off the door to my right. Beside me is an empty seat whose very presence sends a lump to my throat. Onstage a woman sings with great emotion, but much to my neighbors’ annoyance, I can’t help but turn my head to face the door. Despite the earlier announcement, a few people have been permitted entry and have moved quickly to their seats. If Justin does not come now, he may not be able to be seated until after the intermission. I empathize with the woman singing in front of me; after all this time, a door and an usher could be the only things separating Justin and me—an opera in itself.
I turn round once more, and my heart skips a beat as the door beside me opens.
Justin pulls on the door, and as soon as he enters the room, all heads turn to stare at him. He looks around quickly for Joyce, his heart in his mouth, his fingers clammy and trembling.
The maître d’ approaches. “Welcome, sir. How can I help you?”
“Good evening. I’ve booked a table for two, under Hitchcock.” He looks around nervously, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabs at his forehead nervously. “Is she here yet?”
“No, sir, you are the first to arrive. Would you like me to show you to your table, or would you rather have a drink before?”
“The table, please.” If she arrives and doesn’t see him at the table, he will never forgive himself.
He is led to a table for two in the center of the dining room. He sits in the chair that has been held out for him, and servers immediately flow to his table, pouring water, laying his napkin on his lap, bringing bread rolls.