The thought of meeting Cian for tea made the prospect of work the following day much easier. I didn’t discuss hair or make-up with the girls at work – who were still too shell-shocked by the events of the last few days to indulge in such light-hearted banter. Their usual Friday chat of after work drinks and weekend plans were muted.
Part of me resented their lack of enthusiasm for their usual weekend activities. It wasn’t often that I could join in the chat with them – not really. Not with plans of my own for once. But they were just too busy trying to make it through the day. It was as if their grief had sucked the energy from them – pulling it down through their bodies out of their feet, through the ground. Gone. Leaving these soft masses trying to slip and sludge their way through every day.
I was never so glad to finish up and say goodbye to my work colleagues. To nip into town and pick up some pampering products and a bottle of Prosecco and some candles so that I could soak my troubles away and relax before the big meeting the following day.
When I got home I spent more time than usual looking through Rose’s Facebook page – all her photo albums, especially those in which she was pictured with Cian. I hoped it would give me an insight into what look he went for. Not that I thought he would go for me. But it would be better to be prepared. Just in case.
*
Cian had suggested we meet at ‘Primrose on the Quay,’ a bijou café on the banks of the River Foyle, for afternoon tea. It was a lovely spot with an on-trend shabby chic design – but with enough little nooks and crannies that it was perfectly possible to have a private conversation without everyone else in the place being able to listen in. Plus, they did good cake. Lovely cake, which I would at most push around my plate afraid of looking like the kind of person who enjoyed it too much. Rose Grahame had the look of a woman who never so much as looked at cake, never mind sprayed it liberally with cream and made orgasmic noises while eating it.
My trawl of Facebook revealed that Rose seemed to have dressed fairly conservatively, but with a chic style that I didn’t often manage to pull off. I pulled a black wrap dress from the back of my wardrobe. I had worn it only once before, to my parents’ house for Christmas – on a day that hadn’t worked out as particularly pleasant for anyone. Teaming it with my knee-high boots, I decided it looked suitably smart-casual for a perfectly innocent cup of tea with a man who was grieving for his wife. I hung a pair of chunky red beads around my neck and spent more time than I should have trying to give my hair that messy but stylish look that other girls – girls like Rose – seemed to be able to pull off effortlessly. (Sea Salt Spray, Google had told me, was my go-to product for such a look.)
I went for a natural look to my make-up. A slick of Mac’s Velvet Teddy lipstick, a swipe of mascara. Some blush. I pulled on my old green winter coat and examined myself from all angles in the mirror. I looked good, but not too good. Not good enough that anyone would think I was making a play for the poor widower. Not good enough that, on the chance I would bump into any of my colleagues from Scott’s, they would have cause to ask if I was off somewhere fancy.
As I walked alongside the Quay – a walkway that runs beside the river Foyle from the outskirts of the city centre right into the heart of the town – I could feel the cold air pinch at my cheeks and nose. I’d at least have a healthy glow about me when I came face-to-face with him. The café was busy with the clatter of knives on plates, of teacups on saucers, the chatter of old friends gossiping, the serving staff laughing as they made up their teas and coffees and lifted calorie-laden cakes onto plates with serving tongs. I looked around for him – and spotted them almost immediately. Sitting at the back wall, he had Jack in a high chair, running a plastic car along the table and smiling broadly at his daddy. I watched as Cian ruffled his son’s hair, blew a raspberry on his cheek. The little boy roared with laughter, grabbing his daddy’s face with his chubby toddler fingers before turning his attention back to his toy car. As Jack looked away, I saw the smile slip from Cian’s face – just momentarily. It must be exhausting, I thought, to keep up that act for the sake of a child. To pretend to be happy.
He looked across the room and saw me, gave me a smile that warmed my heart. He stood up, his shirt lightly wrinkled, the cuffs rolled up, the top button undone. I tried not to look at the little tuft of hair that poked out below his neckline. A little tuft of hair that made me feel a little weak at the knees.
‘Emily,’ he said, his voice low and soft. ‘I’m glad you came.’ He reached over and kissed my cheek. I revelled in the momentary brush of his stubbly face against my skin. Human contact. Skin on skin – however brief – felt so good. ‘We both are,’ he said, gesturing toward Jack who was staring at us open mouthed, as if trying to size up who this strange woman was.
I wasn’t awfully sure how to act with this cute, wide-eyed toddler in front of me. I didn’t have much experience with children. I figured a smile couldn’t hurt, so I grinned down at Jack and told him he was a gorgeous little man. He cooed back, gestured his toy car in my direction and I took it from him and drove it across the table, making the requisite ‘vroom vroom’ noises. This seemed to please him and he giggled loudly.
‘You’ve a fan there,’ Cian said, gesturing for me to sit down on the chair opposite him.
‘He’s very cute,’ I said.
‘I was going to order afternoon tea for two,’ Cian said. ‘Does that sound good to you?’
I nodded.
‘Great,’ he said, waving to a passing waitress to get her attention. He ordered the afternoon tea, and a cup of milk and a biscuit for Jack.
‘I should probably have brought a packet of raisins or a banana or something for him. Rose would have done that – but I forgot. Sure a biscuit won’t hurt him,’ he said.
‘No, it won’t. I’d say he might even enjoy it.’
Cian smiled at me again, before taking a deep breath and sitting upright in his chair. ‘I do want to thank you for listening the other day,’ he said. ‘You must have thought me a complete arsehole.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘And even if I did, I think you can be allowed a little bit of arsehole behaviour at the moment. Given everything that is happening.’
His eyes darkened a bit. Sadness perhaps. ‘It’s certainly been intense,’ he said. ‘And there’s no manual in how to deal with stuff like this. Lots of well-meaning people wanting to tell you what to do – but no one who really gets what it’s like to be in the middle of it.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they do. I don’t know how you’re coping, to be honest. And with what’s happened to Kevin McDaid …’
He looked down at the table, then brought his hands to his face. For a moment I wondered if he would break down and cry and my heart threatened to crack just a little. He inhaled deeply again and ran his hands through his hair before bringing them to rest on the table.
‘This might put me in arsehole territory again, Emily,’ he said, ‘but I don’t much care about what happened to Kevin McDaid, or about what Kevin McDaid did to himself. I don’t care about him at all. They say that’s the healthiest way to be – to be ambivalent? He got what was coming to him, and that’s all I can say about him.’
I admired him. His ambivalence. I’m not sure I could be so cold in the circumstances. I tended to react differently when people hurt me. Go big or go home, wasn’t that what they said? Even if I didn’t mean to. Even if I tried not to – tried to walk away.
‘I can’t allow him headspace,’ Cian continued. ‘Things are tough enough. All the time. Trying to do the things I would have done before without even thinking twice. Waking up. Getting out of bed. It’s so fucking hard – there are days when I don’t think I can.’ His voice was low and angry, he balled his fists, and thumped the table – the teacups jumped and rattled on the saucers – beige liquid splashing onto the table. Jack jumped, a small laugh, then a loud cry as the fright kicked in. ‘I’m sorry, buddy,’ Cian said, immediately, standing and swooping his son up out of the highchair and into his arms. ‘I’m so, so, so sorry for everything.’
It was then I realised he was crying.
People were starting to look round. Just a few, but enough that there was a danger of a buzz spreading through the café. Those who didn’t know Cian as the acclaimed author, sure as hell knew him as the widower of that woman killed in the hit and run. I stood up in front of them both, doing my best to hide them from view. Jack quietened down, hugging into his father, putting his thumb in his mouth – his eyes drooping as he cuddled into Cian’s chest – which was still shuddering as he cried. ‘Oh God,’ he muttered. ‘People are looking. They’ll be talking.’
He looked stricken, I placed my hand gently on his arm. ‘You go. Take Jack to the car. I’ll sort the bill. He’s exhausted anyway.’
‘But I promised you a cup of tea at least – and we’ve hardly had a bite. I’m sorry, Emily. I’m totally useless at the moment. I keep fucking up – this poor wee man deserves better. Not me. Not me who can’t do anything right.’
He covered his son’s ears as he swore, tenderly kissed the top of his head. He looked utterly broken – in a way that no amount of time or effort could fix.
‘You’re far from useless,’ I said instinctively. ‘Where are you parked?’
‘Just up beside the toy shop, Smyths,’ he said, gesturing to the path I had walked down just a short time earlier.
‘Go, take Jack. I’ll pay the bill. I’m sure they will box some of this up. You can make me a cup of tea back at yours and I’ll be a listening ear for you until this feels a little less daunting. For today anyway.’
He nodded. ‘I would argue with you and tell you we’ll be fine, but I don’t know if we will be.’
‘Go to the car,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll see you in five.’
He told me the make and colour of his car and took a now sleeping Jack through the café, ignoring the few open-mouthed stares coming his way, and pushed his way out the door. And I did what I said I would and wondered how I had just managed to invite myself to Cian Grahame’s house.