thing for me, just one. Write a note and say that you are away in the country, that the letter was forwarded to you, and that you’d love to come. Can you do that?’
‘No, Dermot, I am not a puppet, I will not be manipulated into awful, sordid, cruel scenes like that. I will not do it.’
‘Just say you’ll come, accept, people are always accepting things they don’t go to in the end. Accept, and when you come back you and I will talk, and then you’ll do whatever you like …’
‘And you won’t steamroll me into doing what I don’t want to do?’
‘No, Ruth my love, I will not.’
‘And if I write this hypocritical note saying yes, you really think this is for the best … ?’
‘I do.’
‘For all of us, for her and for me, as well as for you?’
He paused. ‘Yes. Seriously I do. For her, because she can go on planning her party and it will make her, well, busy and active again, and that’s what we want. We want her to have a life of her own.’
‘And how will it help me , to accept?’
‘Well, you can stop worrying about it. Once you’ve written a letter saying yes, then a decision is made. You can unmake it any time, but you don’t have to dither.’
‘And how will it help you?’
‘Then I can see her absorbed in something, and that’s a hell of a lot more positive than seeing her sitting staring out the window and wondering what the future has in store.’
‘What does the future have in store?’
‘It has you coming home to me soon. It has your exhibition and all that means …’
‘I wish I didn’t love you.’
‘I’m very glad you do.’
‘A ridiculous married bank manager, hundreds of years older than me, knowing nothing about painting …’
‘I know, I know.’ He sounded soothing. He was happy now; once Ruth got on to the groove of how unsuitable he was, he felt safe.
‘I must be quite mad.’
‘You are, you are. Very,’ he said.
‘I’ll write the letter, but I won’t go.’
‘Good girl,’ he said.
* * *
Dear Mrs Murray,
What a nice surprise to get your letter.
I didn’t even think you’d remember that wehad met. It’s very nice of you to say such flattering things about my work and I am most grateful for your dinner invitation on the night of the exhibition.
I am writing this from Wales where I am spending a quiet holiday. (My post is forwarded to me, so that’s how I got your letter.) I should be very happy to accept. I look forward to renewing my friendship with you, your husband and your other friends.
Sincerely,
Ruth O’Donnell
Carmel held the letter tightly in her hand after she’d read it. Relief flooded her face. She had been almost certain that Ruth O’Donnell would accept, but there had been the slight fear that she might ruin the whole plan. Now everything was all right. Everything was on target.
That night Dermot told her that she was looking very well, very healthy-looking. Carmel smiled, pleased. ‘I’ve been walking a lot lately, I find it does me good.’ That was true, she did walk and it did make her feel as if it were doing good. But she didn’t tell him about the facial she had had – the second this week. The beautician had been giving her a rejuvenating mask. And she didn’t tell him that she had now settled on veal with marsala for the main course, and pears baked in wine for the dessert.
She didn’t tell him that she had got a letter that day from Ruth O’Donnell.
* * *
Bernadette and Anna had lunch together. Anna had a salad and a coffee; Bernadette had a huge lump of French bread and cheese, and drank a pint of Guinness.
‘Only point in having lunch in a pub, really, having a pint,’ she said.
Anna swallowed her disapproval. They had met to discuss what they should do about Mother and Dad, if anything. There was no point in beginning by criticising each other.
‘Are you sure … it’s not just gossip?’
‘No, a lot of people know, apparently we’re the last to
‘No, Dermot, I am not a puppet, I will not be manipulated into awful, sordid, cruel scenes like that. I will not do it.’
‘Just say you’ll come, accept, people are always accepting things they don’t go to in the end. Accept, and when you come back you and I will talk, and then you’ll do whatever you like …’
‘And you won’t steamroll me into doing what I don’t want to do?’
‘No, Ruth my love, I will not.’
‘And if I write this hypocritical note saying yes, you really think this is for the best … ?’
‘I do.’
‘For all of us, for her and for me, as well as for you?’
He paused. ‘Yes. Seriously I do. For her, because she can go on planning her party and it will make her, well, busy and active again, and that’s what we want. We want her to have a life of her own.’
‘And how will it help me , to accept?’
‘Well, you can stop worrying about it. Once you’ve written a letter saying yes, then a decision is made. You can unmake it any time, but you don’t have to dither.’
‘And how will it help you?’
‘Then I can see her absorbed in something, and that’s a hell of a lot more positive than seeing her sitting staring out the window and wondering what the future has in store.’
‘What does the future have in store?’
‘It has you coming home to me soon. It has your exhibition and all that means …’
‘I wish I didn’t love you.’
‘I’m very glad you do.’
‘A ridiculous married bank manager, hundreds of years older than me, knowing nothing about painting …’
‘I know, I know.’ He sounded soothing. He was happy now; once Ruth got on to the groove of how unsuitable he was, he felt safe.
‘I must be quite mad.’
‘You are, you are. Very,’ he said.
‘I’ll write the letter, but I won’t go.’
‘Good girl,’ he said.
* * *
Dear Mrs Murray,
What a nice surprise to get your letter.
I didn’t even think you’d remember that wehad met. It’s very nice of you to say such flattering things about my work and I am most grateful for your dinner invitation on the night of the exhibition.
I am writing this from Wales where I am spending a quiet holiday. (My post is forwarded to me, so that’s how I got your letter.) I should be very happy to accept. I look forward to renewing my friendship with you, your husband and your other friends.
Sincerely,
Ruth O’Donnell
Carmel held the letter tightly in her hand after she’d read it. Relief flooded her face. She had been almost certain that Ruth O’Donnell would accept, but there had been the slight fear that she might ruin the whole plan. Now everything was all right. Everything was on target.
That night Dermot told her that she was looking very well, very healthy-looking. Carmel smiled, pleased. ‘I’ve been walking a lot lately, I find it does me good.’ That was true, she did walk and it did make her feel as if it were doing good. But she didn’t tell him about the facial she had had – the second this week. The beautician had been giving her a rejuvenating mask. And she didn’t tell him that she had now settled on veal with marsala for the main course, and pears baked in wine for the dessert.
She didn’t tell him that she had got a letter that day from Ruth O’Donnell.
* * *
Bernadette and Anna had lunch together. Anna had a salad and a coffee; Bernadette had a huge lump of French bread and cheese, and drank a pint of Guinness.
‘Only point in having lunch in a pub, really, having a pint,’ she said.
Anna swallowed her disapproval. They had met to discuss what they should do about Mother and Dad, if anything. There was no point in beginning by criticising each other.
‘Are you sure … it’s not just gossip?’
‘No, a lot of people know, apparently we’re the last to
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