The weather was mild for the time of year and as I walked along the canal, daffodils created a golden path into the heart of the city. Dublin had started to feel like home to me. It wasn’t long ago that I had fully planned to move here. The thought embarrassed me. Love, in retrospect, makes one look utterly foolish. To make such sweeping plans based on nothing more than a feeling – a bunch of chemicals, to be technical about it – seemed nonsensical in the harsh light of day. But there was no denying that I had felt more alive and awake in those weeks with Martha than I had done in my entire life. I had the sense that I was sort of sleepwalking through my life until I met her, making decisions based on what I thought was expected of me. How was that method of plotting a course for one’s life any more correct?
I recalled something Lucinda had said to me before I left; that it didn’t matter whether the decision you made was right or wrong, as long as you made it. That’s what moved you along in life. In fact she had used the word ‘journey’ because she was still in her earth mother phase.
Buying gifts was never exactly a forte of mine. A horrible panic always set in, followed by a gaping realisation that I knew absolutely nothing about the interior life of the person I was buying the present for. So I stuck to books as a rule. You couldn’t go wrong with a book. That wasn’t strictly true. I once bought my father a book about problem drinking, which he chose to use as kindling for the fire. But this time, I knew exactly what gift to get.
‘Would you like it gift-wrapped?’ the shop assistant asked.
I nodded and took my debit card from my wallet, slotting it into the handheld machine.
‘Oh, can you just try popping it in again? Sometimes it does this,’ he said graciously.
I popped it in again. Again it was declined.
‘Actually, I think I’ll put this on my credit card instead,’ I said, as if it was a choice. They’d wasted no time in cutting my funding, I realised. But as I watched him wrap the box in black paper with gold flourishes, I knew I would have robbed a bank (well, metaphorically) to get her this.
I arrived at the house just after eight and, like I always did, I took a quick check around the side, just in case. Just in case what, Henry? That the bookshop with the manuscript inside has suddenly reappeared? I threw my eyes heavenward and shook my head.
‘Utter fantasist,’ I muttered to myself as I walked up the steps to the front door.
I stopped mid-stride as I saw movement in the window. It was Martha in a sapphire blue evening gown cut low at the back, framing the large tattoo on her skin. Her bright blonde hair was styled in a braid that she wore like a crown around her head.
I felt my knees weaken. It was no use. No matter how much I talked myself out of it when I was alone, as soon as I saw her, all of the feelings came flooding back. Then I saw him, the same guy I’d seen with her at Trinity. He was telling some anecdote that had everyone in stitches. He was older and balding, but clearly he had something I didn’t.
‘Reliability?’ a voice said, reading my mind. I looked up to find Madame Bowden standing in the front doorway, walking stick in one hand, cigarette in the other.
‘How long have you been there?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Are you coming inside, Mr Field?’
‘Actually, I don’t think I can,’ I said. ‘I’ve just realised, um, I have a previous engagement. Perhaps you could give her this?’ I asked, offering the wrapped gift.
‘I beg your pardon? You seem to be mistaking me for some kind of courier! I am the lady of this house and if you were a gentleman, you would come inside and give it to her yourself.’
I exhaled heavily. That woman.
The house looked magnificent, twinkling with a terrific amount of fairy lights. I could hear light chatter and the sound of glasses clinking in the drawing room. I waited to let Madame Bowden enter ahead of me, but she’d acted out of character and made herself scarce. Walking through the open double doors, I saw the table was laid with hors d’oeuvres and a large iced cake. It seemed the old dear had really begun to take a shine to Martha, looking at the spread she had laid on. But then, who wouldn’t? I said hello to a few people, then slowly made my way towards the birthday girl, resisting every step that took me closer to her. She looked up and gave me that blue-eyed stare I remembered from the first morning I met her, looking through the basement window. But now, like this, with her beautiful dress, the look was even more disarming.
‘Happy birthday, Martha,’ I said.
She stepped away from her group of friends and let her hand rest on my wrist before leaning in to kiss my cheek.
‘Oh, Henry!’
Yes, exactly the kind of reaction you want when gatecrashing a party. Oh, Henry.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ she tacked on, giving me an awkward hug. Or maybe I was just an awkward person to hug. The jury was out.
‘Me too,’ I said, as if swerving tonight had never crossed my mind. ‘You look beautiful.’
She put her hand up to touch her hair.
‘Thank you. Madame Bowden insisted that I borrow one of her old dresses. She had it altered by a dressmaker and everything,’ she said, her eyes wide with disbelief.
I watched as she swished the silk skirt.
This was heartbreaking. I had to get out of there.
‘Listen—’ I began but was interrupted by music that struck up out of nowhere.
‘A birthday dance!’ said one of her friends and all but pushed Martha into my arms.
‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s necessary—’
‘I don’t even know how!’ We both began to protest in unison, but the crowd had warmed to the idea and formed the dreaded circle around us.
‘It is my song,’ she said a little shyly.
I listened to the wonky piano notes and tried to recall what it was.
‘Tom Waits. My mother named me after this song.’
How could I refuse?
‘Well then, if it is your song …’ I put one arm around her waist and held her hand.
We didn’t speak, just shuffled slowly to what was possibly the most forlorn song I’d ever heard in my life. Dancing in public was bad enough, but dancing in public with the woman who had just dumped you should have been the most excruciatingly awkward moment of my life. But something happened; it became strangely magical. We looked into each other’s eyes, unable to keep from smiling at the situation. The guests stepped back to give us more floorspace, but in my mind they might as well have disappeared entirely. All I could see was her. She felt so right in my arms. I bizarrely found that I could dance – I don’t know if it was her evening gown or the candlelight, but I became a bit of a Fred Astaire. Or else it just felt that way and if someone had replayed a video I might have looked like Frankenstein’s monster. The song reached its slow, plinking-plonking crescendo …
Martha, Martha, I love you, can’t you see?
I couldn’t take it any more. I let her go and stepped backward.
‘Sorry, I have to go.’
I tried to walk out of there with as much dignity as I could, which was to say, very little. I reached to pull the handle of the front door, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘For God’s sake …’ I muttered, pulling it with all my might.
‘Henry!’
I turned around to see her standing there, her face full of pity. That was the last thing I needed. I felt completely exposed. The only way out was to pretend.
‘You were right. About us, I mean. It never would’ve worked.’
‘Oh.’
Her face was unreadable. I had to get out of there. I turned to try the handle again, but it still wouldn’t budge.
‘Leaving so soon?’ Madame Bowden asked.
God, that woman was omnipresent!
‘It’s fine,’ Martha said to her. ‘Thank you for coming, I mean it.’