“But Ingrid,” he said, and he reached out his hand to still mine. “He’s not with her anymore. I thought you’d heard.” I could see the shock on my face reflected in the surprise on his. “I haven’t seen him since we argued, but I spoke to Louise. She left him weeks ago. She told me she was going to phone you.”
What did I feel? Relief? And then futility, anger, Schadenfreude. I remembered the telephone call that Flora had refused to take. Louise and I haven’t spoken since you left. I blame her as much as I blame you, of course; but her betrayal is different, worse, perhaps. Louise has always been my voice of reason, or, if not that, a different opinion—someone who will question my choices, make me defend myself. Not only has Louise slept with you, had an affair, fallen in love (whatever its name)—she’s changed sides.
“So tell me about this house,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking of getting rid of the tenants from my mother’s old house and doing it up. Going back to Ireland to settle down. Maybe I can find a job teaching in a school or somewhere.”
“It’s about time. How old are you? Fifty-three?”
“Fifty-two. Bloody hell, how can I be fifty-two? I’m tired of travelling. You’d love the house. Plenty of space for the kids.”
“They’re fifteen and nine. It’s not space they want anymore. It’s time away from their mother.” I laughed.
“Well, there you are then.” He topped up my glass. “Bantry Bay is beautiful when it’s not raining. The house just needs some patching up, a lick or two of paint.”
“You should find yourself a wife.” We smiled.
“There’s nothing to keep you and the children in England. Just decide and come with me. You could make a garden and I could write.”
It sounded frighteningly familiar.
“You once told me to stay with Gil when I was thinking about leaving.”
Jonathan looked unbearably sad. “See, that’s why you should never listen to my advice. What do I know about what happens inside a marriage?”
“I sometimes think you know more about it than Gil and me, or at least you’re able to take a more objective view.” I cupped the side of his face with my hand. He closed his eyes, pressed his cheek against my palm, and the moment lengthened until he snapped his eyes open and pulled away from me.
“Fuck Gil,” he said, raising his glass.
“To Ireland,” I said. “I’ll pack up the house, pack up the girls, and move out.” It was the drink talking, making plans without my brain being asked.
Jonathan waved his glass towards the bar again and poured me more wine.
“Thank you for the offer, Jonathan,” I said, concentrating on my words, which wanted to run together. “I really appreciate it. Will you do something else for me, too?”
Jonathan shifted across the table and held my hands in his. “Anything.”
“If something should happen—you know, to me—promise you’ll keep an eye on Nan and Flora.”
“What do you mean? What’s going to happen?”
I stared at him until he said, “OK, I promise.”
When we got up to leave I staggered, catching myself against the table. The barmaid was sitting on a stool, waiting for us to leave. Two plaits of yellow hair lay coiled on the bar beside her.
“Are you drunk?” Jonathan said.
“Of course I’m bloody drunk,” I said. “You made me drink a whole bottle of wine, plus what we had at dinner.”
“I think you need some coffee,” he said. “Come on, upstairs.”
Jonathan took me to my room and sat me on a wooden chair in the corner against another heart-shaped hole and kneeled to take off my shoes. I bent forwards, meaning to kiss his forehead, but he jumped up. “Coffee,” he said, and picked up the kettle from the tray on the unit opposite the bed. He shook it and went into the bathroom. I got up, steadied myself, and followed him. The tiny space had been tiled with pictures of edelweiss and hearts which swirled together. Jonathan jumped when I stood behind him and put my arms about his chest, and when I looked around his shoulder his eyes met mine in the bathroom mirror. “I can’t do this, Ingrid,” he said. It hadn’t occurred to me that we were doing anything until he said it.
“Why? Don’t you want to?”
He left the kettle in the sink, turned around, and put his hands on the tops of my arms.
“It would be wrong.” He sounded sober.
“But downstairs you said we should live together in Ireland.”
“Not like that, though. You’re still married.”
“So you don’t want me, either.” I went back to the bedroom.
From the bathroom’s doorway Jonathan said, “Come on, Ingrid. Don’t get all maudlin on me. It’s wine you’ve been drinking, not gin.” He laughed. “Let me make you some coffee.”
He sat on the edge of the bed drinking a minibar whiskey. I sat in the chair holding a cup and saucer on my lap.
“Drink it up,” he said. “I might even make you have another.”