Brendan had eaten too much; he had drunk too much wine. Maura’s face was flushed in the firelight as she sat opposite him, digesting her second helping of clafoutis and sipping brandy. Jean-Luc was strumming his guitar and singing something in French, Evie sitting on the floor at his feet, smiling, waving her hands and talking about her plans to create a bed and breakfast and redecorate the house. Maura was effusive and laughing, an amber glow on her face, her smile lifting her cheeks as she chatted easily with his mother. Brendan looked at his wife and then at his mother. He watched the way Evie was so affectionate towards Jean-Luc and how they smiled into each other’s faces and laughed. He caught Maura’s eye and plastered a smirk on his face. She grinned at him and then turned back to speak to Jean-Luc. She looked radiant and Brendan wished he could put his arm around her. He wanted to feel like part of a couple, not the moody man on the outside. But mostly, he wanted to be part of a happy couple with Maura again, with the vibrant, chattering woman who spoke so easily to his mother and her new man, and who seemed to be fitting in so well. Maura was relaxed, friendly, and he envied her for it. Something in his heart expanded and became swollen with pride, perhaps even with love, as he watched Maura laugh easily at a joke. He sat firmly in his chair and watched the others enjoy the evening. He swallowed the brandy and it was fierce and hot in his mouth.
Maura was in a party mood. ‘Have you played the guitar long, Jean-Luc?’ He finished his song and Maura was clapping lightly, her face shining.
‘A long time.’ His fingers strummed a chord. ‘My guitar has been with me since I was a boy; since I first kissed a woman, I learned to play and sing about love and loneliness.’ The flames made his eyes thoughtful and a melancholy flickered for a moment. ‘Music and poetry, it’s the same thing: they break from a broken soul but they heal the heart.’
Evie laughed. ‘He does talk shite sometimes, but he’s a great fella on the guitar. I never think about putting on the television. We just talk and he plays the music. It’s grand.’
Jean-Luc began to play something fast and jazzy, picking out notes easily with thick fingers.
Maura was excitable. ‘Can you play any Oasis?’
Jean-Luc began with a few chords she found immediately recognisable. ‘Wonderwall’.
‘Oh, I love this one!’
He began to sing softly, and Maura joined in, and Jean-Luc looked at Evie. Brendan turned his eyes away as Maura threw her head back and sang from the depths of her lungs. He wanted her to sing it for him, to smile in his direction, but she had her eyes closed, singing for herself now. He wondered if Maura was even aware of him at all. No, her confidence had blossomed tonight. She was in France, in a new place where she seemed really at home; she was talking animatedly to his mother, chattering warmly, even flirtatiously, to Jean-Luc, and Brendan felt left out in the cold. He hoped no-one saw him wipe a tear from his cheek. Maura clapped again as he reached for the bottle of brandy.
‘That was lovely, Jean-Luc. I remember that song. It was out when Brendan and I—’ She turned to him, and then back to Jean-Luc and her lower lip dropped. ‘Years ago.’
‘You sing well,’ Jean-Luc commented and the skin on Maura’s neck became blotchy and pink.
Evie couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘Not like a frog, Monsieur?’
Jean-Luc bent over and kissed the top of her head. ‘Your song moved me that night, Evie. It was a sad song, “Danny Boy”. Seeing you there so sure of yourself, so happy, made me realise how lonely I was. I thought you were beautiful that night but the words would not come to tell you.’
She reached up an arm to him. ‘So instead you told me I sang like a frog.’
He made a deep sound in his throat, full of emotion. ‘You said I was an ugly toad.’
‘I thought you were drop-dead gorgeous.’
It took him a moment to understand her words, and then he smiled. Evie laughed, her voice tinkling and full of joy, and Maura joined in. Evie reached for the brandy, filling glasses.
‘It’s a lovely story, how the two of you met, Jean-Luc.’ Maura put a hand to her face: the fire was warm. ‘I love a romantic story.’ She lifted her eyes to meet Brendan’s.
He shifted in his seat. Maura was clearly impressed by Jean-Luc’s warmth; she was even developing a friendship with his mother, their heads close together. He clenched his teeth. ‘I think I’ll go up to bed.’
Evie looked at him. ‘But you didn’t go out anywhere today at all, Brendan. It’s only just after nine o’clock. Stay a little bit longer. We’re having such a lovely time.’
‘I’m shattered,’ he said, as he stood up and stretched.
Maura glanced away. ‘Think I’ll have an early night too. Thank you both for such a lovely meal and, well, the music and singing was great. It really cheered me up.’
‘It’s grand to have you both here, isn’t it, Jean-Luc?’ Evie’s eyes searched his face.
Jean-Luc smiled; he began to pick out the notes for ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and he sang softly, his voice low and poignant. Evie turned to him, giving him her full attention, as Brendan headed for the stairs followed by a hesitant Maura.
He pulled his pyjamas over his head and Maura sat on the bed, taking off her new sandals. The silence between them hung cold in the air and neither of them knew how to break it.
Then Maura sighed. ‘He’s nice, Jean-Luc, isn’t he?’
Brendan brought his lips together and made a small sound.
‘What’s that supposed to mean, Brendan? Don’t you like him?’
‘You obviously do.’ Brendan shuddered at the pettiness of his own voice. He saw Maura look at him steadily, unsure how to read his mood. He thought about reaching out, putting an arm round her, but sulkiness squatted on his shoulders and he couldn’t move.
‘I had such a lovely time today.’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘You seemed to enjoy being with Mammy at the market and you got on well with Jean-Luc tonight. You looked like you were having fun. You didn’t need me at all. I was just a millstone …’
Maura couldn’t speak for a moment, then she muttered, ‘Don’t you think we can be good together, Brendan? Like Evie and Jean-Luc? Can’t we be more like them, the two of us?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
He turned off the light and climbed into bed. He felt her slide in beside him. It was quiet for a moment, and then he heard her sigh. He breathed out. ‘I’m sorry, Maura.’
She sniffed. ‘You were very moody tonight, Brendan. I don’t understand at all what got into you downstairs.’
He was quiet for a while and, when it came, his voice was hollow. ‘I was just tired.’
‘You looked unhappy.’ Another pause. ‘Is it because of me?’
‘Perhaps it’s because of me.’
‘Are you needing a hug? I am.’
He put his arms around her and squeezed her to him, whispered into her hair, ‘Oh, Maura, it’s all such a mess. I don’t know what to do—’
He didn’t finish the sentence; she pulled away and rolled over. He heard her snuffling quietly. Brendan put out a hand and touched her shoulder. He wished she would turn back again, tell him he was special, help him to tell her that she had moved his heart this evening, that she had been wonderful and he had truly admired her warmth and friendliness, something he couldn’t summon himself. She’d looked beautiful in the firelight and he was jealous of her easy conversation with others and angry with himself for being so foolish. He had wanted her to smile at him, to chatter animatedly to him as she had chatted to Jean-Luc, to look at him as her mother had looked at her new man and he wanted so badly to be able to go back in time, to replay the last few hours again, to be seated at the firelight and to join in the song and put his arms round Maura. But he had failed at the first hurdle and he was failing again. Jealousy stopped his mouth and spread like cement. Maura’s sobs became quieter and the opportunity was lost. He waited for sleep.