The forty-eight-year-old scowling at him in the mirror caught his attention and he grunted in protest. Flecks of grey in predominantly dark brown hair were nothing compared to the dense white creeping up inexorably around the ears. A subtle fold of skin underpinned each eye accompanied by tiny thread-like fingers that spread out from the corners, as gravity stealthily worked its infernal magic on flesh that now sagged below once proud cheekbones.
Jack rubbed the stubble of his chin and gave the imposter in the mirror a look of disdain, wondering how this could have happened, sobered by the certainty he would never look this young again. He took a long hot shower, shaved his chin smooth and brushed back his hair until he was satisfied the result was tolerable.
He slid a slice of sourdough into the toaster, filled the kettle and tossed an extra-large spoonful of ground coffee into the cafetiere. While the machinery hummed into action, he checked his phone. It had been off for over twelve hours, so he expected a plethora of unwanted messages. He wasn’t disappointed.
He flicked through his emails, cursorily deleting junk and any from unknown sources but then a prick of conscience made him think twice and he had to go back through the bin to retrieve one from the estate agent. He forwarded it to Henry Burnham with minimal introduction. “Charlie and her boyfriend are buying this house and I’m guarantor. Can you deal with the conveyancing and all the security please? Back in Milton Friday night. Kind regards. J.” There was a voicemail from Charlie; “Did you get the email?”, a text from Charlie; “Did you get the email?” He texted a reply; “Henry’s on it. XX”.
He wasn’t interested in anything much other than caffeine and after he’d finished the first pot, he made another. He hadn’t had much sleep, lying awake all night thinking about the fearsome Siobhán. He wasn’t in love with her. It was far more complicated than that, but he had an irrepressible desire to be with her and didn’t know how he would get through another twenty-four hours without seeing her. He told himself it would probably go nowhere, and he shouldn’t build up any false hopes. He couldn’t even explain the attraction. Last night had felt like going ten rounds with Mike Tyson yet all he wanted was to do it again.
It had been a catharsis. Talking about Natalie honestly and openly, especially with a stranger, was the sort of therapy people pay thousands for, and with good reason. She’d made him bring his guilt and grief out into the open, the good and the bad, and even if it was done for her own purposes, she’d done him a great service. If she never wanted to see him again, he would understand and be disappointed, but he’d always be grateful. He thought asking to see her again might be a mistake and that maybe it would be better if he remembered her for just those twelve hours? Maybe the stuff he didn’t know about her would be better left unknown? Maybe if he pushed it, the spell would be broken? Be careful what you wish for. Conflicting thoughts and emotions persisted in hounding him, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything other than getting through the day as fast as he could until tomorrow came. It would be a long day.
***
He went for a walk and either by accident or design, found himself along the same stretch of beach. He passed many people walking their dogs and kept an eye-out for Jerry and his threadbare tennis ball, but he and she were nowhere to be seen. He reached the timber-clad house and, feeling like a voyeur, cast a glance upwards, hoping to catch a glimpse and maybe a wave, but there was no sign of activity. She was busy. She’d said so.
He didn’t have a number so even if he’d plucked up the courage to call her, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t even know what to say. How’s Jerry? Just checking you’re okay for tomorrow. Just wanted to hear your voice? The sky was grey and overcast and the Channel calm and devoid of colour apart from the odd splash of scarlet from the hull of a distant freighter. He checked his watch again and was dismayed to see the time appearing to pass more slowly than ever; the curse of the impatient.
The beach opened out into a small harbour where a variety of vessels bobbed around at their moorings. He followed the path inland and came across an imposing waterside pub: The Spinnaker. He checked his watch again and relieved to see it was almost twelve, decided to treat himself to an early lunch.
He sat at a table by the window and watched the boats, sipping his pint of Yates’ Islander, and revisited the previous night in his head. The way she looked, the way she smiled, and the way she’d skilfully drawn the truth out of him like an expert interrogator; knowing which buttons to press and when, while at the same time keeping a safe distance herself. She’d been right. Natalie had been on a path of self-destruction, probably from the day she was born. It was her destiny and he’d never realised how serious it was because she was so good at covering it up; so good at being someone else. He fell in love with Natalie the actress and never really got to know the person inside. Whether he’d have been able to save her even if he had, he could only guess. Siobhán’s words echoed in his brain. Sounds like you rescued her. If he had, it had been only temporary, a postponement of the inevitable.
And who was the real Siobhán? Was she an illusion too? Was he such a poor judge of character that he might make the same mistake again? He’d always thought he was good at reading people. It had been a necessary part of his working life and had undoubtedly contributed to the success of his business venture. But she was something else. He had no idea what she thought of him and still found it incongruous someone so apparently strong willed and independent would so easily socialise with a stranger she met on the beach. She’d not only invited him into her home twice within the space of a few hours, but had agreed to meet him on two separate occasions? The thought that it was some sort of elaborate scam crossed his mind. He had plenty of cash, but she could not have known that when she invited him in for coffee. Unless she’s been stalking me? He dismissed the idea as ludicrous. She didn’t need to hear all that intensely personal stuff and give him a hard time, if all she wanted was to deceive him. But apart from admitting her origins in Donegal, she’d avoided almost all his questions and on more than one occasion the previous night, glanced nervously around the restaurant, clearly distracted by someone or something. She’d glossed over it and changed the subject, but it still bothered him. It seemed inconsistent with her confident, self-assured character.
He wondered again whether she may have second thoughts about lunch tomorrow. He was going home on Friday so tomorrow would be the last chance to see her. But if she didn’t want to see him, she would have said so. That much he knew. And then she’d kissed him. Sympathy? No, she didn’t do sympathy. Pity? No, she didn’t do that either. Apology? For what, being so strident? He tried to stop thinking about the options. It was driving him mad.
The weather was closing in, so he called it a day and went back to the cottage. He turned on the heating and stretched out on the sofa. He started to read the trashy novel he’d brought with him but couldn’t concentrate and fatigued, simply laid back covering his eyes with one arm. The ring tone was jarring.
“Daddy! Have you heard from Henry yet? Did you get my messages? When are you coming home?” He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted before he could get any words outs. “Hold on…” He heard her talking to someone else. “Yes, but I want it in light oak, not dark… and black leather on the chairs… yes like the picture… Sorry, I’m just in Oxford looking at dining room furniture. Do you know how difficult it is to get exactly what you want?”
“Oh, you usually manage it darling. How are you?”
“Fine. Have you heard from Henry?”
“Well, he only got the message this morning. Give him a chance.”
“It’s just the estate agent is hassling.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll all drop into place.”
“But what if it doesn’t?” Charlie was winding herself up for no reason other than that was the way she was.
“I’ll send him an email confirming I’ve instructed a solicitor and I’ll give him Henry’s details.”
“When?”
“Now. As soon as I’ve finished talking to my favourite daughter.”
“Do it now and call me back.” The phone went dead, and Jack slumped back on the sofa in frustration. He tapped out a reply to the estate agent and appended his phone number. The last thing he wanted was to get sucked into the detail but if it kept Charlie calm it was probably worth it. He dialled her number. It went to voicemail. He hung up and tried again to no avail.
“Damn it!”
His phone rang again five minutes later. “Have you been trying to get me?”
“Yes…”
“Have you done it?”
“Yes.”
“Gavin wants to get a home cinema thingy. The house has a biggish room with a wall that’ll take a three-metre screen. He says it’s perfect for watching movies.”
“Does he?”
“Have you thought what you’ll be getting us for a house-warming present?”
He could visualise the feverish anticipation, the wide eyes and the big smile and he bowed to the inevitable. “Oh, I thought I might get you a home cinema thingy.”
She squealed in delight. “Aw thanks Daddy. We’re outside Richer Sounds now. Gavin knows exactly what he wants.”
“Well, that’s a relief isn’t it?”
“Call you later. Love you.”
“Love you too sweetheart. I’ll be home…” The phone went dead before he could finish the sentence. He stared at her picture on the screen and sighed. She was every bit as beautiful as her mother and every bit as scatty. Just as well you’ve now got time to devote to her wellbein’. Charlie’s immediate needs had temporarily eclipsed any thoughts of the previous night, but Siobhán’s words rang in his ears. He had to get to know Charlie better, if he were able and if she would let him.
He didn’t know whether her personality and behaviour resulted from a traumatic childhood or were just there in her genes. On the surface she seemed to have taken the death of her mother in her stride and in the immediate aftermath, had been a source of strength and comfort to him. But he worried that she may have just blocked out the shock and that one day, it would manifest itself in some terrible way. He had no expertise in psychoanalysis and had no way of finding out without sending her for therapy, which would certainly be expensive, probably futile, and potentially counter-productive. He would just have to talk to her, spend time with her, navigate the rocky road between support and capitulation and be alert to anything regressive in her behaviour. He’d feel better if she were not shacked up with Gavin the git. There was a chance he’d be good for her, but he guessed it would end in tears. He’d be watching and he’d have to be there to catch her.
He lay back on the sofa and tried to catch up on his sleep. He hated killing time and all he wanted to do was fast forward to tomorrow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d dozed before his phone pinged, waking him up. “Thank you for your order from Richer Sounds,” was the subject of the email accompanied by acres of text together with an attachment called ‘Invoice’. He sighed and opened it up. A penny short of five grand. Happy days.