Wise Follies Read Free Page A

has stuffed a tomato for me for a very long time. Eamon looks at me happily. I know he finds women rather complicated so my simple delight in my salad must be rather reassuring.
    As I tuck in, he refills my glass of wine and I glance at him gratefully. He’s wearing a very fetching taupe-coloured Armani jacket and looks highly presentable. I really liked the skilful way he ordered the wine and the diligent manner in which he enquired whether I was warm enough and if he should ask the waiter to return my rose-coloured wool shawl. His attentiveness is comforting. He seems so masterful and grown-up sitting there. We fit in perfectly with the other couples in the restaurant – his casual but perfectly groomed appearance somehow compensating for the fact that my Laura Ashley floral-patterned cotton dress is inadequately ironed. There are four yellow freesias in a vase on our table, which is covered with a crisp linen tablecloth. I touch them tenderly. The luxuriance of the setting seems almost sensual. I suddenly realize that I’ve been missing this kind of thing – when we used to date, Eamon frequently wined and dined me at nice places. We tended to eat in virtual silence so I entertained myself by earwigging on conversations nearby, which were often fascinatingly indiscreet.
    However, this evening Eamon is far more talkative than usual. He tells me that he has had his kitchen redesigned and that his cousin has given him a book called Talking to Ducks – Rediscovering Joy and Meaning in Your Life . He says the name of this book carefully, as though it is some sort of secret code. Getting to know Eamon requires being alert to these sorts of signals, because he rarely speaks of his own emotions directly.
    I restrain myself from asking him about the ‘duck’ bit. I have talked to ducks myself occasionally and they haven’t answered back. ‘That book sounds interesting, Eamon,’ I say encouragingly. ‘I could certainly do with a bit more “joy and meaning” myself.’
    ‘Yes, you can borrow it if you like,’ he smiles affectionately. ‘I knew it would appeal to you. I’m afraid I haven’t got beyond the first chapter. I haven’t much time for reading these days.’
    I look down at my napkin and wonder if Eamon ever will find the time to address his more murky personal issues. The fact that he mentioned such a book at all must, however, be in some way significant. ‘Are you doing a bit of mid-life reappraisal?’ I ask gently. ‘It’s all the rage these days.’
    ‘I suppose I am in my own small way,’ he agrees, most surprisingly. Then he says, ‘Ah, here comes the lobster,’ and I know he’s decided to swerve off the subject as deftly as Jensen Button in an Alfa Romeo. Eamon prefers cars to feelings. He likes the way you can just open the bonnet and sort things out there and then, so his evasion does not surprise me. On the rare occasions that Eamon has been open with me, he has done it in his own good time. Any attempts I’ve ever made to get him to ‘open up’ have resulted in emotional withdrawal.
    Sometimes it seems like a little game of his. A ‘now you see me, now you don’t’ kind of thing. It’s a kind of defence I suppose. Though he appears strong, silent and sophisticated, deep down Eamon is very sensitive and doesn’t really want people to know it. I sensed this side of him the first moment we met at a friend’s barbecue two years ago. Frankly, I think it’s what drew me to him in the first place, so of course it was rather exasperating to find he had walled this side of himself off quite so neatly. Bits of it slip out sometimes in conversation, and when they do he almost seems relieved. But, just as quickly, he tucks them back into their box and it’s as if they were never there at all. Because of this our conversations tend to be rather bland – as though we’re skirting around something. It can get very lonely and is one of the reasons we drifted apart.
    Though we are still