Fragile Lies by Laura Elliot Page B

the sea breeze. Divorce proceedings had to begin. If she was to move on with her life she must make decisions instead of living in limbo-land. But she was unable to comprehend the reality of no longer being a wife. Would it be like losing an arm or a leg? Would she be limbless and free, suffer phantom sensations, imagining Adrian beside her in the morning when she awoke, hearing his key in the door, his music on the stereo, his body above her and she below him, sinking into the familiar rhythm of passion? And memories, what happened to them when they no longer had a structure to keep them intact? Did they, like love, dry up and die?
    As Máirtín had predicted, Emily was making friends: a boy with bleached hair called Ian, Sophie’s son, Ibrahim, and a willowy young person called Fran, whose gender still remained a mystery to Lorraine. Máirtín’s goth twins completed the group. They cycled down Stile Lane and descended on her house to devour great quantities of popcorn, toasted cheese sandwiches and pizzas. They were noisy, untidy and unfailingly polite to Lorraine. Their tolerance for loud music would, she suspected, leave them with significant hearing loss by the time they were twenty.
    “Can I ask you a fabulously fantastic favour?” Emily asked one evening after her new friends had departed. “It’s to do with my birthday.”
    “Ask away.”
    “Will you and Daddy make up?” She spoke too quickly, nervously curling her fist against her chin, but her tone was so determined that it stalled Lorraine’s instinctive rebuttal. “I know you’re not going back to him but I want the three of us to have a meal together, the way we always did on the night of my birthday.”
    “Emily, please don’t ask me to do that –”
    “Please … please! Can’t we be a family again? Just for one night? He wants to come to Trabawn and stay in O’Callaghan’s Hotel. If he books a meal in the restaurant will you come with us?”
    “I don’t need this discussion, Emily. It’s not as if I’ve prevented you from seeing your father as often as you wish, but you’ve made no effort to stay in touch with him. Except for that one time –”
    “It’ll be different if he comes here.” Emily flushed deeply. Her mouth puckered. “Just one night, that’s all I want for my birthday and you can’t even give me that.”
    “If it means so much to you, then that’s what we’ll do. But I don’t want him in the house. Do you understand?”
    Her daughter nodded. “Do you think you’ll ever get back together again? Not now but maybe in a year’s time – two years’?”
    “Darling, that kind of talk gets us nowhere. Your father and I have made our decisions. Nothing’s going to change. But time will make things easier, you’ll see. After all, we did one wonderful thing together. We had you. You’ll always keep us in touch.”
    Noble words, she thought, after Emily had gone to bed. She took a bottle of wine from the fridge and fiercely twisted the corkscrew in the bottle.
    Her daughter had one last favour to ask. Could she bring Ibrahim O’Doherty to the restaurant? She blushed, tried to look casual when Lorraine agreed.
    On the evening of Emily’s birthday Lorraine collected Ibrahim from Sophie’s house and drove to O’Callaghan’s restaurant, where Adrian was waiting for them. Emily approached him cautiously. He held out his arms. She ran forward with a muffled sob and sank against him. His eyes were moist when he looked towards Lorraine. Stiffly, refusing to hold his gaze, she walked to the table that had been reserved for them.
    Emily sat close to her father throughout the meal. Ibrahim sat opposite her. He was respectful to Adrian, was charming to Lorraine and fastened his black flirtatious eyes on Emily. He was the lightning rod upon whom they directed their attention. The waitress, whose name-tag spelled “Angie”, took Adrian’s camera and ordered them to smile, to look happy, to share Emily’s excitement.