Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [159]
Joe opened his eyes, his eyelids languid, his look meaningful. ‘Hi,’ he said, groggily.
‘Hi,’ she whispered.
‘What a lovely sight first thing in the morning.’ He reached out his hand and pulled her to him under the crumple of duvet. Her heart swelled as she felt the heat of his body. Chest against chest, the smooth skin of her leg rubbing against the hairs on his. She closed her eyes to savour the softness of his morning-langourous caresses and when they made love it was slower, more lazy and sensuous than it had been the previous night.
Afterwards Joe went to the bathroom while Katherine frantically raked her hands through her hair, then swept her fingers under her eyes to remove any rogue bits of mascara. When Joe returned, he looked uncertain. Thoughtfully he rubbed his hand across his mouth, stretching and pulling his skin out of shape, then letting it spring back.
‘I suppose I should be off,’ he said, questioningly.
‘I suppose you should,’ Katherine said, with an enigmatic smile. But she was bitterly disappointed. What about the croissants, the freshly squeezed orange juice and the white linen napkins on the gilt tray, like the ads promised? Shouldn’t she be wearing a pyjama top and Joe the bottoms? Shouldn’t she be sinking back into goose-down pillows, Joe bending over, feeding her spoonfuls of yoghurt? Then putting a blob of it on the tip of her nose, both of them laughing with crinkle-eyed joy?
Then shouldn’t they go for a walk, holding hands, feeding the ducks, their lovers’ laughter ringing across the park? Shouldn’t Katherine dip her toe into the water, and wear a stupid hat which only stayed on by her holding her hand on the crown of her head?
Joe left the bedroom and when he returned he was dressed. This made her feel horribly empty.
‘I’ll call you,’ he promised.
‘Will you?’ Katherine smirked sagely. So that if he had no intention, she was letting him know, and thereby keeping her dignity intact. And if he genuinely meant to call her, then she was giving him some of the mysterious Katherine he was so keen on. Christ, it was exhausting!
‘And of course I’ll see you at work,’ he said.
‘I’ve no doubt you will,’ she agreed, lightly.
‘And thank you for a wonderful evening. And day,’ he added.
She inclined her head graciously. ‘Don’t mention it.’
The slamming of the door behind him was echoed by a thunderclap of bleakness deep within her. Was that it?
But at least she’d kept the floodtide of need at bay. Better. Better than the last time. Maybe she’d finally grown out of it. If she had, she acknowledged ruefully, it had taken twelve long years.
59
First cut is the deepest. And Katherine’s was deeper than most. She’d been nineteen the first time her heart was broken – quite old; maybe that had been part of the trouble. Then, not even a full month later, she wrote to her father and found out he had died. Thus crystallizing her pain.
So, the following week, when Tara said, ‘Fintan and I have enough money saved to leave Knockavoy. We think you should come with us,’ Katherine felt she’d been thrown a lifeline. On the one hand her life was over, so technically it didn’t matter where she eked out her days. But the idea of escape was a wildly inviting one.
‘Where are you going?’ she’d demanded.
‘To a faraway city,’ Tara had tempted.
‘Not Limerick?’ Katherine’s voice had quaked.
‘Jesus, no. Further afield.’
‘Dublin?’
‘Further afield again,’ Tara had swaggered.
‘Not… not New York?’ Katherine could hardly contain her excitement.
‘Er… no… not New York.’ Tara had been slightly shamefaced. ‘But how would London suit you?’
Katherine would have preferred it if it was further. Like Los Angeles. Or Wellington. Or the moon. But London would do.
Early on the morning of 3 October 1986 the three of them arrived at Euston station, bought an Evening Standard and landed a flat in Willesden Green.
During the following week Tara got a job with a computer company, Fintan found employment on the shop-floor of an expensive menswear emporium,