They saw the sea from the road above. It was a shield of silver with a halo of sand shimmering in the sun. The Fiat Panda wound its way down the narrow bends, then the beach appeared to their right, speckled with swimmers. Windsurfers were zipping and unzipping the foam on the horizon. It was hot inside the car, even with the windows wide open. They drove up and down the seafront twice, looking for a hotel.
Brendan’s brow furrowed. ‘She said she was staying near this beach, so she must be in a hotel. But there isn’t one here.’
‘There are some little apartments. Maybe she’s rented one of those. It would be funny to bump into her in a little café, maybe like that one there.’ Maura could smell pizza cooking; a blue and white sign offered ‘moules marinières/frites’ as the dish of the day for nine euros. Brendan turned his head from side to side.
‘Perhaps we should ask someone? Should I stop at this little shop – maybe she bought her postcards here?’
He pulled up at the kerb and grabbed his jacket, slamming the door as he moved away; his mobile and wallet were in the inside pocket. Maura followed him, too warm even in her sleeveless top and shorts. There were ice-creams for sale, cold drinks, and newspapers. She picked out some postcards with pictures of the sea splashing spray. Brendan asked the proprietor in his best French if he knew of a woman who was staying close by, an Irish woman. The man pushed up his glasses and replied, ‘Oui.’
His lungs emptied in a rush. He asked the man if she was an older woman, in her seventies. The man scratched his head.
‘Oui. Peut-être. Plus jeune … On ne sait jamais à ce qui concerne les femmes …’
Brendan put his hands on the counter and leaned forwards. ‘Brunette? Petite?’
The proprietor cleaned his glasses on his shirt and replaced them, peering back at Brendan. ‘Non. L’Irlandaise elle était une petite blonde.’
Brendan asked him if he was sure and the man grunted assent. Maura handed over her postcards and bought stamps and two bottles of water. Brendan blew air out through his cheeks, then turned back to the car.
‘It can’t be the same woman. The one he knows has blonde hair. What should we do?’
‘Ring her, Brendan.’
‘We’ve decided. We’ll surprise her. She loves surprises.’ He imagined his mother being delighted to see him, hugging him, telling him she couldn’t speak a word of French and what a good job he was here; he was so good at the language, just in time to help her find a nice lunch, then she’d be on her way back home.
‘Text her, then go for lunch?’ Maura brightened. Brendan was already busy on his phone.
‘Best not to tell her we are here, my love. Not yet.’ Another image came into his head. His mother in a swimsuit, in a deck chair on the sand, a sun hat on her head, her face a picture of surprise and irritation. What if she didn’t need him at all? What if no-one needed him again, except for Maura? Guilt descended on him like a sudden downpour and he shivered.
Brendan clutched the phone and typed: Where are you, Mammy? B x
Maura placed a hand on his wrist. She leaned towards him, her lips close to his cheek. ‘We should be thinking of finding a hotel for ourselves, Brendan. We could be here for a couple of days, maybe more.’
The mussels were served in a wonderful sauce, the chips were thin and crispy and the afternoon on the beach was lazy and soaked in sunlight; time stretched out in a glorious hammock of haze. Maura waded into the water, laughing, splashing, calling Brendan to follow her in and paddle. His mood lifted, seeing his wife smile with delight, her hair whipping across her cheeks. He checked the mobile repeatedly but there was no reply from Evie.
They found a small, picturesque hotel by the river in nearby Châteaulin, they ate at a little Chinese restaurant and walked arm in arm back to the hotel. The water was smooth, calm as crystal, reflecting the arched bridge and green banks in symmetry. A cyclist passed, then another. Maura knocked back three glasses of wine and she was chattering about going to a French market in the town later in the week. Brendan looked down at his feet and used his spare hand twice to check his phone without her noticing.
They shared a dessert; Maura chose profiteroles, and she giggled with delight as she plucked one from the plate and popped it between Brendan’s lips. He tried to push the worry of his mother away and enjoy her company. She was scintillating, charming the waiter in her meagre French, merci and s’il vous plaît, and the tall balding man in black was attentive to her, filling her glass and murmuring, ‘Vous parlez Français très bien. Vous êtes Allemande, Madame?’ She looked at Brendan quizzically, not understanding.
He muttered, ‘He thinks you’re German. He says your French is good,’ and laughter bubbled from her lips. Brendan frowned at the waiter and wished he would go away.
They walked back arm in arm and Maura disappeared into the bathroom. Brendan checked his phone for messages and then took some maps from his suitcase and selected the Ordnance Survey map of Finistère. In the shower, Maura was lathering herself and singing a song about a new day, her voice echoing against the glass of the cubicle. She was adding the bass line too, punctuating the tune with soft sounds like sucking fruit.
Brendan felt his phone vibrate in his shirt pocket and he checked the text. In Anger. All fine. Don’t worry. For a moment he didn’t understand; was his mother irritated with him for texting her? He held his breath at the thought of his mother, independent and self-propelled, furious with him for encroaching on her holiday time. He replied quickly. Are you angry with me? Maura took up the chorus again, more booms and grunts, thrusting her hips from side to side to the tune. The phone vibrated again. Staying near Angers. Going south. Nice here. Mammy x and he put it quickly in his pocket as Maura emerged, a towel around her torso.
She tottered into Brendan’s arms and fell, covering them both with drops of water. She giggled and the towel slipped down a little from her body. Brendan noticed that the skin on her throat was raspberry-coloured from the hours spent on the beach; below was pure cream. She reached around to clasp his neck too tightly and she smelled of undiluted vanilla. He put his arms around her.
‘Tell me you love me, Brendan.’
His lips skimmed the damp forehead. ‘You know I do.’
The forehead creased. ‘I wish you’d tell me more often.’
‘But you know how I feel …’
‘Sometimes … you can be so distant.’
‘Maura—’
‘So secretive—’
‘Maura, don’t—’
Tears pooled in her eyes and a fat one splashed over, still for a moment then exploding and running down onto her cheek. Brendan kissed it. He wondered if this would be a good time to explain how she made him feel unhappy sometimes, that she could be critical and he could be uncommunicative and withdrawn, but he still thought she was lovely and to ask if there was a way back to how they used to be together.
Maura’s face crumpled, then it was covered in tears and she was sniffling. ‘Tell me everything is all right.’
‘Everything’s all right, Maura.’ Brendan looked at her mouth, her jaw trembling and slack, and he wanted to hold her even tighter. Something protective and primal surfaced and he glued his lips to her mouth. She pulled away and blinked, took a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘You know you’re still a handsome man, Brendan Gallagher. Come here and let me show you how much I still love you, after all these years.’
She reached up and put her hands on his shoulders and the towel fell away completely. Maura grasped for his head and pulled it down towards her lips, hauling him onto the mattress. He heard her exhale and he rolled across her body and he put his arms around her and closed his eyes. She tugged at his shirt buttons and began to nuzzle his ear. Brendan touched her hair lightly and put his lips on hers. He squeezed his eyes closed and whispered something unintelligible into her hair. She was in his arms and it was like old times. The familiar feeling surfaced in Brendan and he murmured her name over and over. He felt powerful; happiness surged in his chest like a bird in flight. They would make their marriage work. This holiday was just what he needed. They rolled over. The phone slipped from his pocket onto the bed and bumped onto the carpet.
He awoke the next morning and the guilt from his dream sat stiffly between his shoulder blades. He had been swimming in indigo seas with Penny Wray. She was a mermaid with a glistening tail and they’d frolicked and tumbled below the surface of foamy waters. She’d flicked back long hair, sending a shimmer of diamonds into the skies. He’d followed her to a rock where she was suddenly naked, her skin the colour of cappuccino. They’d made love and lain stretched in the heat haze until the salt had dried on her body, crystals glittering in the sun.
He awoke with a start and a pang of shame and rolled over. Maura was asleep, her lips apart, an arm flung across one breast, pale against the red line of sunburn on her shoulder. He pulled on the discarded underpants that were crumpled on the floor, and unzipped his laptop case. He perched himself on the edge of the bed and flipped up the screen. There were two emails: one from St Cillian’s acknowledging receipt of his job application and one from Penny Wray, wishing him a great holiday and saying she would apply for the head of sport post before taking off to Mexico to go snorkelling.
Maura woke and was sitting up in bed, watching him; she was smiling, measuring the curve of his spine as he searched the map of France and typed in ‘Angers’. He did not know that she was holding her breath, gazing at him with familiar fondness, a feeling of hope making her heart leap. She was thinking about the hotel breakfast and whether there was time to tempt him back into bed.
Brendan screwed up his eyes at the screen, checking the online maps, trying to work out the arced lines of roads and the dots of towns and cities and convert the distances to kilometres. He made a map in his head, considering where they might stop for lunch and when they would arrive in Angers and when they could text his mother that he was nearby. Perhaps that would be a good time to phone her and tell her he was not far away. He was planning the route to make the most of their time and to miss out any toll roads or busy city centres. They would be heading south today and leaving Brittany, the markets, the mussels in white wine and the beaches far behind them. Maura would be disappointed but finding his mother and bringing her back was as necessary to him now as breathing.