* * *
When eventually the key turned in the lock downstairs, Paul paused in his brooding.
Fiona, he thought in a rush of heartache.
With his back to the door, he listened as his wife came up the steps, set her books down, fished through her purse for the crinkling of her cigarettes. Paul didn’t dare turn around to greet her. What good would it do? If he could get her in his arms again, tell her about his dream of Aidan and all those feelings he kept inside, then maybe, maybe it would mend his soul.
But he wouldn’t get her back. I’ve a better chance of winning the pools.
Staring out at Killiney Bay, he waited until he saw drifting smoke before he even bothered with looking up. At the sight of Fiona, he wished he hadn’t. Her hair was mussed. Her lipstick was smudged. Figures, he thought, for her blouse—the one he’d always hated—was misbuttoned near the top; the scalloped edge of her fancy bra showed all too plainly, and as she held out her cigarette with cold fingers and even colder eyes, he felt the rage kindling inside him.
He took the smoke from her anyway. He inhaled it as deeply as he thought he could stand.
“It’s not ’til tomorrow, is it?” she asked.
With the burning in his lungs almost as painful as her voice, he nodded, handed back the cigarette. “Yeah, tomorrow.” As if she’d care.
She started to walk away.
“But em,” and getting to his feet, he caught her eye, “Fiona, I was thinkin’ maybe, maybe this year you could come down to the pub with me. Trevor an’ Deirdre will be there as well. Maybe you an’ Deirdre could find something to talk about, y’know, politics or film?”
She shook her head. “You’re not going to the pub this year.”
Paul stopped in front of her. With the curls in her blonde hair and the lipstick she wore, he knew why she’d dolled herself up for the night. Not for me. I’m just the fellah who pays her bills, aren’t I? I’m only the fellah who’d give his life t’make her happy, not the guy she’s been shaggin’, the one who’s waitin’ outside in the car.
Feeling that anger welling up again, he lifted his hand, touched the place where her buttons didn’t match. “I’m going to the pub.”
For a fraction of a second, turmoil flared in her light blue eyes. Her mouth opened the slightest bit, and even though he loathed the way he needed her, still he found himself wanting to kiss her with all the hurt he felt inside.
He never got the chance.
“Fine, then,” she said, pushing him away. “But don’t be thinkin’ I’ll feel sorry fer ya. I won’t, Paul Henley. Not when the gardaí come, and not when you’re ringing me up from a holding cell.”
And just so he understood, she reached for her purse, took out her cell phone and tossed it on the table. All too keenly he felt her contempt. She held him responsible for the way she had to lecture him, to look after him. I am responsible, he thought dismally.
“So you’re going out?” As if he hoped she would, that’s how it sounded, and hastily he touched her arm. “I mean, you’ve got your hair all curled an’ that, I thought maybe you were meeting him tonight, since—”
“Yes, I’m meeting him.” She closed up her purse. “And if you’re not gonna top yourself ’til tomorrow, I can go, can’t I? I don’t see any point in stayin’ here.”
She turned toward the door, and Paul felt a jolt of fear go through him, so strong he couldn’t bring himself to release her arm. “Fiona, wait—”
But when she did wait, eyes like pools of ice, he couldn’t find words to tell her.
Calmly, she pulled out of his grasp. “Get on with yer life, Paul. Aidan or me, this has t’stop.”