Wise Follies Read Free Page B

skirting around things in this swish French restaurant, I do sense that Eamon is trying to be more open. I sense he is working up to something, however laboriously, and I wonder what it is. I order chocolate mousse for dessert and he has profiteroles. As we drink our post-prandial liqueurs I restrain myself from playing with the melted wax on a tall vermilion candlestick and listen. He’s telling me more and more about his house and things he’s had done to it. He is looking at me fondly as he speaks, as though these details somehow involve me. Then, after a generous glass of chartreuse he suddenly announces, ‘But the place is far too large for just one person, Alice. It’s just a house, not a home. I need someone to share it with me.’
    ‘You could advertise in the “Flat Sharing” section of The Irish Times . That’s how I found Mira,’ I reply.
    He looks at me with such obvious disappointment that my tentative decoding is confirmed. When he said ‘someone’ he meant me, though he doesn’t seem able to acknowledge this. Instead he starts to talk about a Van Morrison CD I gave him for his birthday and how he often plays it in his car. He says that the Fair Isle sweater we chose together is now one of his favourites and that even though he’s tried to follow my chocolate sponge pudding recipe, his puddings never taste as good as the ones I make myself. He says he doesn’t have much time for cooking anyway. He buys most of his meals pre-prepared at Marks and Spencer. When he starts to tell me, rather nostalgically, that he came across my ‘occasional’ toothbrush in his bathroom recently, I decide it is time to broach the matter he is obviously avoiding.
    ‘Eamon – are you suggesting that we get back together?’ I ask.
    ‘Yes! Yes, I am!’ he grins delightedly. ‘I’d like you to move…to move…’ He fumbles with his napkin. He just can’t seem to spit it out.
    ‘Move in with you?’
    ‘Yes! In fact, something a bit more than that.’
    ‘A bit more? In what way exactly?’
    He doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches across the table and takes my left hand in his. He presses it tenderly and looks rather pointedly at my marriage finger.
    ‘Is this – is this something to do with marriage?’ I enquire cautiously. I’m beginning to feel like a contestant on Name That Tune.
    ‘Oh, yes, Alice. It is. Absolutely.’ He looks at me with great relief. I stare at him, gobsmacked. Even when we were dating Eamon had seemed a confirmed bachelor, though now he has decided not to be his decisiveness should not really surprise me. Eamon approaches life the way he ordered lobster from the menu. He scans his alternatives and swiftly reaches a decision. I often wish I was more like him.
    After his pronouncement, neither of us speaks for at least half a minute. It feels like half an hour. ‘Why didn’t you say you felt like this before?’ I eventually ask, taking a gulp from my glass of Grand Marnier. ‘You haven’t contacted me in ages. You seemed to have forgotten all about me.’
    ‘Oh, no, I hadn’t, Alice,’ he replies earnestly. ‘I thought about you a lot – it’s just – it’s just that I’ve been away on assignments. I’ve been incredibly busy.’
    I get that forlorn feeling you get when someone says they’re going to transfer your phone call and clearly doesn’t know how to. The ‘bleep’ just doesn’t sound right, and neither does Eamon’s explanation. Being ‘incredibly busy’ wouldn’t have stopped me from contacting him, if I’d wanted to.
    ‘Eamon’ – I begin the sentence cautiously, but with as much firmness as I can muster. ‘Eamon, I think you should know I’m not at all sure we’re suited.’
    Eamon does not seem surprised at this remark. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about commitment lately,’ he says slowly. ‘My younger brother got married last month and it just didn’t seem right.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m the older one,’ he frowns. ‘It