The One I Love Page 5

  “Elle Moore?”

  “That’s me.”

  She signed for the flowers and closed the door. She smelt them and smiled. She opened the card and the smile quickly faded.

  Elle,

  Like the song goes, I want you, I need you, but let’s face it, I’m never going to love you. We’ve had four good years so let’s start ’08 with a clean slate.

  Yours,

  Vincent

  Elle’s legs turned to jelly, her ears began to burn and her stomach tightened so much that there was no room for her breakfast. She ran to the toilet and threw up, then sat on the floor and gazed at the note with a sense of disbelief that was overwhelming.

  For six years running Jane had joined Elle at the back of their garden to retrieve her letter to the Universe and for six years running she had discovered something she didn’t want to know. And yet, although her sister had taken her son skydiving after she had expressly forbidden it and she was so annoyed she could have spat, she knew she would partake in her sister’s reading again. Five years ago, after a particularly nasty surprise involving her sister and an intended sexual encounter with a prostitute named Cora, it occurred to her that she should dig up Elle’s letter to the Universe every January and read it to get a heads-up on what she’d planned for the year. But Jane was terrible at espionage, as had been proved seventeen years previously when she had only managed to conceal her pregnancy from her mother for two hours. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, my God, you’re pregnant!”

  If she dug up the letter Elle would find out and she’d never trust Jane again so she couldn’t risk it, even though she often stood on the spot that was five feet from her mother’s rose bushes and between six and eight feet from Jeffrey’s head and was sorely tempted.

  For instance, there had been the year that Elle had promised the Universe she’d give money to Comic Relief. She’d watched the show, got drunk and pledged a hundred grand. Jane had argued that, although people all over the world were in need, Elle didn’t know if she’d sell another painting that year, and although Ricky Gervais was funny he wasn’t that fucking funny. Elle had laughed and called her mean, but it was Jane who paid Elle’s bills when she’d squandered all her money by June and had to wait three months for the next big cheque.

  There had been the year she’d promised to rescue a dog and ended up rescuing ten from different pounds across Dublin. Two weeks and two tons of dog-shit later it had become apparent to all but Elle that she couldn’t care for them. It had fallen to Jane to rehome them and Elle had taken to her bed for two weeks, mourning the dogs she couldn’t seem to remember to care for. There was the year she’d decided to run a marathon and forgotten to prepare. She’d made it twenty miles before she collapsed, suffering the effects of exhaustion and a speed overdose. Elle had felt that it was perfectly acceptable to take speed to run a marathon, going so far as to query the doctor as to how in hell he thought she’d make it without.

  All of these incidents had caused Jane to deliberate on risking Elle’s wrath, but then she’d conceded that even if she knew of Elle’s plans in advance there would be no way of stopping her as she was a law unto herself. Their mother said it was her creative nature that drove her to extremes and that neither she nor Jane could ever hope to understand the things that drove her. Jane and Rose didn’t agree on much but they agreed on that. Elle was a genius and everyone knew that genius is close to madness and so as long as Elle painted the most beautiful and inspired paintings she would be indulged.

  Jane opened the back door and before she got inside and had time to close it Rose was calling her through the intercom that linked her kitchen with her mother’s in the basement apartment.

  “Jane? Jane? Jane? Jane, it’s your mother! Jane! Jane! Jane, have you gone deaf? I know you’re there. I saw you come out of Elle’s cottage. Jane, Jane, will you please answer me, for God’s sake!”

  Jane wondered how many times a day her mother shouted through the intercom and abused an empty room. She pressed the button. “I’m here.”

  “Are you planning on starving me?”

  “To be fair, Rose, I’ve heard that drowning is faster and less cruel.”

  “I want eggs, scrambled, dry and fluffy. Not wet and slimy. If I see slime I’ll throw up.”

  “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  “Oh, fine. I’ll go ahead and pull a plate of scrambled, dry and fluffy eggs from my rectum then, shall I?”

  “No need for vulgarity, Jane. You weren’t born in a barn.”

  Kurt entered the kitchen in time to witness Jane give the intercom the finger. “Whatever she wants, I’m not doing it,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Jane said, in a voice her son recognized as his mother meaning business. The look that twisted her face suggested he was in big trouble.

  “What?” he asked, trying to work out what he’d been caught doing.

  “Skydiving, Kurt?”

  “Oh, I’m going to kill Elle!” He flopped onto the chair and pulled his hood over his head, covering his blond curls, and pressed his hands to his ears.

  “Skydiving. You know how I feel about skydiving. I said no. Every time you asked me I said no. No means ‘no’. It doesn’t mean ‘maybe’, it doesn’t mean ‘I’ll think about it’ and it sure as Shinola doesn’t mean ‘Go behind Mum’s back with Elle’!”

  “Oh, Mum, please stop saying ‘sure as Shinola’ – it sounds retarded. The expression is, ‘You don’t know shit from Shinola.’”

  “I don’t give a shit if it is and that’s not the point.”

  “You said it the other day in front of Paul and he thought you’d hit your head.”

  “Really, I don’t give a Shinola. You cannot get away with deliberately disobeying my rules.”

  “Ah, Mum, back off. It was last April. It’s done, over, it was a laugh, it was safe and nobody died.”

  “Well, you can forget about tonight.”

  “You can’t stop me going out on New Year’s Eve!” he said, with scorn.

  “No, probably not, but I can withhold funds.”

  Kurt pushed his hood off his head. “You can’t do that. I’ve promised Irene.”

  “Tough.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me on New Year’s Eve!” he shouted, and stormed out of the kitchen.

  “Yeah, well, believe it and you’d better storm back here in ten minutes flat to bring Rose’s eggs to her or you’re going to be poor for all of January!”

  “I hate you!” Kurt screamed at his mother.

  “I hate you too!” Jane screamed back, while breaking two eggs into a cup.

  Ten minutes later Kurt stormed in, picked up the plate of eggs and stormed out without a word.

  Although Jane’s authority had been briefly undermined her power was restored, she was fifty euro richer and she had managed to avoid Rose so her mood brightened considerably.

  Kurt made his way down the steps to his grandmother’s basement flat with her tray in one hand, fishing for the key with his other. He opened the door and went inside. The place smelt of air-freshener, cigars and wine, making his eyes water a little. In the small hall he nearly tripped over a stack of unsolicited post that she kept in a pile against the wall. It was stacked so tall that it kept falling over. He had once asked her why she kept it and she had told him that she was waiting for a member of the Green Party to call to her door so that she could throw the paper at him, douse him in alcohol and set him alight. She had been drunk at the time so Kurt hoped she was joking. He opened the door to the sitting room and his grandmother sat up straight in her chair.

  When she saw him, her face broke into a smile. Kurt’s relationship with his grandmother was far different from that he had with his mother. Rose idolized her grandson and saved all her grace for him. He laid the tray on the table she kept near the big chair that dominated the room. The chair was referred to as
“the throne” by her daughters and she spent most of her time sitting in it. No one dared sit on Rose’s chair, not her daughters, not her friends, not visiting dignitaries and not even her grandson, who was one of the very few people that Rose actually liked. Poking at her eggs, she asked after Jane and he lied and told her she felt fluey.

  “Well, then, she may stay away – I prefer you anyway,” she said, winking. She sampled her eggs and made a face to suggest that she was less than impressed. She always made that face. Usually it was for Jane’s benefit but as it had become habit she did it whether Jane was there or not. She sniffed the plate.

  “Just eat the eggs,” Kurt said.

  Rose took a forkful and popped it into her mouth, rubbed her tummy and made a yum sound. Kurt laughed.

  “How’s Irene?” she asked.

  “She’s good,” he said, and sat down. “Better, she’ll be fine.”

  His grandmother nodded. “Of course she will. So her father’s an ass. She has you, doesn’t she? Is your mother still determined to go to the Walsh household tonight with Alexandra’s husband?”

  “She’s dreading it.”

  “Of course she’s dreading it. The Walshes have always been complete lunatics. Alexandra was the cheekiest pup I ever met. The mother is one of those holier-than-thou types, the father hasn’t done a real day’s work since the seventies, and as for her brother Eamonn, that little snot was trying to get into your mother’s pants when she was thirteen!” She stopped and took a breath. “And, anyway, she has no business there – the family are grieving the loss of their child.”

  “She’s missing, not dead,” Kurt reminded his grandmother.

  “Of course she’s dead,” Rose said. “She’s Valley-of-the-Dead dead.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know this. If someone vanishes without a trace in this day and age they’re buried somewhere and it’s usually someone closest to them who’s done the burying. For all we know your mother’s next.”

  Kurt laughed. “Now I know where Elle gets her imagination from.”

  “Mark my words. Your mother is getting herself involved in something very bloody sinister there.” She pushed the remaining food on her plate to the side and put down her fork. “I’ve finished.”

  After that Kurt told his grandmother about his run-in with his mother, expressing how annoyed he was that she was punishing him for something he’d done eight months previously. For once his grandmother was on his mother’s side as she felt that anyone who jumped out of a perfectly good plane deserved to be crippled for life. Having said that, she felt that Jane’s withdrawal of funds was an overreaction, bearing in mind which night it was. “How much do you need?” she asked.

  “Seventy?” Kurt said, testing his grandmother.

  “Fifty it is,” she responded, knowing full well he was chancing his arm. She took fifty euro out of her handbag and handed it to him.

  “Cheers, Gran!”

  She waved him away. He left the basement flat and she watched him through her window as he turned on his iPod, searched for some noise, pressed play and walked down the street, probably deafening himself. Kids are mad, she thought. Then she picked up the open bottle of red wine that was resting against her chair. She drained her cup of tea and poured in the wine. She took a sip and smiled to herself. Happy New Year, Rose.

  Chapter 4

  So Far Gone

  I’m so far gone that it seems like home to me.

  I’m so far gone, have I lost my way or am I free?

  Jack L, Universe

  It was just after eight thirty on New Year’s Eve when Leslie got off the train, returning from the bungalow she owned in the country. Her apartment was located conveniently beside the railway station so she wheeled her suitcase past all those queuing for a taxi, turned the corner, tapped her number into the keypad on the apartment-building gate and she was home.

  In the lift, she could hear crashing and banging, and the closer she got to her floor, the louder the noise became. She exited and walked towards a bunch of five people she recognized as neighbours. They were blocking the way so she mumbled, “Excuse me.” They didn’t notice as they were wrapped up in what was going on around the corner. It was then Leslie noticed a fireman. He was standing in front of the group as though he was there to hold them back. Leslie couldn’t smell any smoke. She said, “Excuse me,” again, but this time the banging was louder.

  One of the girls she recognized but didn’t know turned and looked her up and down. “Oh, shit!” she said. “She’s here!”

  Leslie wasn’t one for pleasantries but the girl’s response to her arrival was slightly shocking. The others gaped at her. The fireman called to his buddies, “Lads, it’s a false alarm!”

  The gaping neighbours parted and she was allowed to walk through them with her case rolling behind her. She rounded the corner to be met by two firemen standing in the space where she used to have a front door. “What the hell?” she asked.

  “It’s my fault,” the girl who had uttered “Oh, shit” said. “I haven’t heard your music in a few days and there was a smell.”

  A fireman walked through the doorway. “Well, the good news is we have no dead body. The bad news is the cat has shat all over the place.”

  “I was down the country,” Leslie said, a little shocked at the scene.

  “I’m really sorry,” the girl said, to the fireman rather than to Leslie. “She rarely leaves the apartment,” her tone slid from apologetic to accusatory, “and for the past few days no music and then that awful smell.”

  “You smelt cat-shit and thought I was dead?” Leslie said, in a voice laced with contempt and disbelief.

  The girl turned to her, hands raised in the air. “Look, I was just being a good neighbour – you hear all the time about people left to rot and, to be fair, I don’t know what death smells like.”

  “Well, it doesn’t smell like cat-shit – and what do you mean ‘these people’?”

  “Well,” said the girl, becoming a little uncomfortable, “loners.”

  Leslie stood dumbfounded.

  “She thought you’d killed yourself,” a random man said.

  The girl nudged him and mouthed the words “shut” and “up”.

  “Well,” he said, directing his speech to the firemen, “everyone knows that New Year’s Eve is a big night for suicides.”

  “Am I going to get charged for this call-out?” the girl asked.

  “Don’t give them your name, Deborah!” the man said.

  “Brilliant, Damien,” she said, walking away and shaking her head. “Thanks for that.”

  The firemen gathered their gear; the five people disappeared.

  Leslie entered her doorless apartment and sat on the sofa. Her cat, which had apparently recovered from its gastrointestinal malady, jumped on her lap and together they surveyed the pile of cat-shit matted into the carpet near the electric fire. Then the realization of how she was perceived in her building hit Leslie like a ton of bricks. I’m the crazy-loner cat lady, who drops dead and rots in her apartment. The irony was not lost on her as she had only recently rejoined the society she had shunned for so long.

  A mere two months before this night Leslie had been sitting in a chair opposite her oncologist. He had cared for her mother and both her sisters through their cancer. He had also been testing Leslie twice a year for more than twenty years. He was smiling. “Good news,” he said. “You’re clean as a whistle.”

  “Right,” Leslie said. “Fine. Thanks.” She stood up to leave.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Apparently I’m clean as a whistle.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  She sat. “Well, would it be odd if I said I was?”

  “Very odd.”

  “I’m sick of waiting,” she said. “I’m sick of waiting for this stupid tick-tocking time-bomb to go off.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  “The trut
h is, when Imelda died I stopped living.” She hunched her shoulders. “Now I’m a woman about to turn forty with a cat for company. I thought I’d be well dead by now but yet here I am, alive and lonely.” She smiled at her doctor to assure him she wasn’t going to cry. He must have been shocked at her revelation as it was possibly the most she’d ever said to him.

  “You know that you might never get cancer,” he said, “but a lot has changed in recent years. Although I’m not a huge advocate of preventive surgery I can give you some brochures.”

  She looked at him. “We talked about this years ago. You were adamant it was just self-mutilation.”

  “A lot has changed,” he repeated, “and, besides, I might have thought differently if I’d known how you were feeling or if you’d given even the slightest indication of the effect this worry was having on your life.”

  She stared at him and asked abruptly, “Are you talking about a double mastectomy?”

  “Yes. And in your case I’d recommend a full hysterectomy also, for peace of mind.”

  “Wow,” she said. “Jesus. Holy crap.” She nodded. “Give me the information.”

  This new prospect was daunting but even as Leslie pulled out of the hospital car park she had made up her mind. I’m going to do it.

  It was around that time that Leslie also decided she’d had enough of being lonely and tentatively she had stepped back out into the world. As she was a web designer who worked from home, she decided instead to rent an office in town. She had yet to move on this but the plan was in place. As she had no friends she decided to visit museums and art galleries so that, even if she was alone, at least she was outside and partaking in life.

  It would be a slow road back but, thanks to that night stuck in a lift, not as slow as she had first envisaged. Elle had become a fixture in her world over the past two months and to a lesser extent Tom and Jane. She had created a website for Alexandra and was in contact with Tom, giving him updates, and Jane filled her in on how the exhibition idea was coming along so that she could blog about it. But Elle wanted more than her help. Elle wanted her friendship and, although it was unnatural to Leslie to be a friend to a woman so much younger, she had become fond of her. So, the fact that she had so recently ventured back into the world and actually made friends meant that the comments from her annoying neighbour served to really bug her. “I’m not a loner, Deborah!” she shouted at the wall. “I have friends. I go out. I have a life.”