The Forgotten Waltz Part 2

'I wondered who it was,' I said.

'Ah, wheels within wheels,' he said.

We shook hands.

His palm felt old, I thought, but most palms do.

I checked him out giving a seminar that first morning: I glanced in through the open door and saw him eating the room. His open jacket flapped behind him, as he turned to one corner and then the other. He worked the air in front of his chest; he cupped the thought, and held it out, and let it go.

'Why,' he said, 'do you dislike rich people?'

It was quite a spiel.

'You. What's your name? Billy. OK, Billy. Do you like rich people?'

'I'm not bothered.'

'You take it personally, don't you? The house, the car, the holidays in the sun. You take it personally, because you're Irish. If you were American, you'd let them have it. Because, you know, these people are not connected to you. They bought their nice house and your name didn't even come up. They went to the Bahamas and they didn't even forget to invite you.'

There were two speakers each morning, and people were split into groups for workshops during the afternoons. I thought Sean was sleeping with the 'Global Tax' woman, or that he had slept with her. But, I learned later, they just didn't like each other, or so he said.

Meanwhile there were the chocolate tastings and shopping opportunities and much rubbish to talk. The wilder ones, myself included, formed a kind of gang, with large amounts of drinking to get through. There were two Northern Irish guys 'from either side of the divide' whose catchphrase became, 'just so long as n.o.body gets shot'. There was a really nice gay guy who played torch songs at the piano in the bar and the Global Tax woman, who drove me up the wall by stopping the conversation, many times, in order to make her point yet more clear. By Wednesday night it was a drinking compet.i.tion, and I had her knocked out by the fourth round. On Thursday I ended up in one of the Northerners' rooms, polis.h.i.+ng off the mini-bar with the other Northern guy and Sean; the queen of international tax returns pa.s.sed out on the second bed. On the last night Friday Sean met me on my way back from the ladies, and he turned to gather me up, saying, 'Come here. I have something to show you.' At least I think that is what he said. I may not remember the words exactly, but I remember his hand on the small of my back, and I remember knowing what we were about to do. It seemed that choice had nothing to do with it, or that I had chosen a long time ago. Not him, necessarily, but this; waiting for the lift in sudden silence with a man who did not even bother to court me. Or had that happened already? Maybe he would court me later. Things, clearly, did not happen in a particular order anymore: first this, and then that. First a kiss, and then bed. Maybe it was the drink, but my sense of time was undone, as idly as a set of shoelaces, that you do not notice until you look down.

In the lift we made small-talk. Don't ask me what about.

A part of me said that there would be other people in his room, like the previous night's fun that we were still a happy bunch of people who were trying to move beyond the EU another part surely hoped that there wouldn't be. But there is little point in agonising over something so simple. We went upstairs to have s.e.x. And it seemed like a great idea at the time. I was, besides, so drunk, I only remember it in patches.

We had an amazing session outside the room, I do remember that; as I resisted going in the door and he turned back to persuade me. My memory skips the beginning of it, like a needle in an old record, so I have lost the moment of decision, the leaning in. But I remember how he slayed me with kisses, how, when I struggled to open my eyes, I was surprised to find the hotel corridor still there; the dizzy carpet, the receding line of identical doors, and the wallpaper, in vertical stripes of scarlet flock. As I continued to leave and he continued to keep me, the kiss was a sweet argument and pursuit, so tranced and articulate, his left hand on my arm, the other holding his plastic door key, not yet slipped home.

It was the luxury of the kiss that held me, the pure pointless, greedy delight. Even when the lock whirred and the door clicked open, we carried on, and it was only the sound of people coming out of the lift that sent us scurrying inside, laughing in the darkness.

After the kiss the five-minute, ten-minute, two-hour kiss the actual s.e.x was a bit too actual, if you know what I mean. There is another blank when I try to recall how we got from the door to the bed, after which, much enthusiastic bouncing and writhing, despite the fact that I couldn't really feel much, I don't think, and Sean (who is now the love of my life my goodness, how it betrays him to say this), took about half an hour to come.

At the time, I thought it was the drink that slowed him down. But Sean only ever pretends to drink. Now I know him better; that inward look as he tries to catch his pleasure, the thing that puts him off his stroke, I realise, is age. Or the fear of age.

As if I cared about his age.

Or perhaps this is not how it was in Montreux. I might be imposing the lover I know now on the memory of the man I slept with then. He might have been, that first time, thrilling and keen, pitch perfect; the impulse inseparable from the action. Maybe that is what first times are for.

All I know is that one night, on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Geneva, in a small room among other small rooms, in the middle of Sean's long effort, I turned my head to see his keys and loose change on the bedside locker; beyond them the open door of the bathroom where the fan still droned, and I remembered who I was.

I don't know if Sean was surprised how quickly I left afterwards, but he was practically asleep and did not detain me. The last thing I remember was the door at my back and the long corridor stretching out on either side of me. I think I got lost. I have some idea that I tried quite hard to get into my room, but it was on the wrong floor: the numbers had confused me. I lurched through the carpeted corridors and got into lifts and out again, and I met no one, or maybe just one couple, who said nothing but stood in by the wall as I pa.s.sed. But even this is not clear. Some shutter came down, and it did not rise until I woke the next day, safe in my own bed, half-undressed, with all the lights ablaze.

It maddened me. I did not feel guilty, exactly, but I did feel a little mad, I think. I couldn't face the breakfast room, for a start. I put my sungla.s.ses on and headed to a local patisserie, then I took my hangover to the railway station, and I got the first train out of there, a neat, old-fas.h.i.+oned little thing, with bench seats, which went a surprising distance up into the mountains, through tunnels and hidden pa.s.ses, until it emerged into high meadow lands strewn with Alpine flowers and grazed by chocolate-bar cows with bells around their beautiful, pendulous, mauve necks. The few scattered houses had heart-shapes cut out of their wooden balconies, and white quilts thrown over the rails to air in the sun. And it was all so wonderful and silly, I decided to get out at Gstaad, which turned out to be a village of a few streets, with twee little shops, all with names like Rolex or Cartier. There was a Gucci shop and a Benetton shop and a delicatessen full of astonis.h.i.+ng cheese. I walked the entire village, and there wasn't a single place where you could buy cornflakes, or muesli, or even toilet paper and I wondered, did the rich people get these things flown in? Perhaps they did not need them: they had moved beyond.

My adultery I didn't know what else to call it lingered in my bones; a slight ache as I walked, the occasional, disturbing trace of must. I had showered that morning, but I realised I would have to go back and clean up again, and the thought made me laugh out loud. It was a vaguely horrified laugh, but still. I did not feel guilty, that afternoon in Gstaad, I felt suicidal. Or the flip side of suicidal: I felt like I had killed my life, and no one was dead. On the contrary, we were all twice as alive.

I also felt, as I went to pack and face the dreaded Sean,that the whole business was a little disappointing, let's face it as seismic moral s.h.i.+fts go. In the foyer, and on the minibus to the airport, he ignored me so strenuously I felt like writing him a note. 'What makes you think I might care?' It was hardly worth mentioning; not to Sean and certainly not to Conor. And though this seems hard to believe, I returned to my Dublin life as though nothing had happened; as though the lake, the mountains, the whole of Switzerland, was a lie someone had told, to keep the rest of the world amused.

Toora Loora Loora HINDSIGHT IS A wonderful thing. With hindsight it was clear there was something wrong with Joan long before my hotel encounter, that she hadn't been entirely right for some time. But there were so many reasons we could not see it, not least of which was that she did not want us to.

Our mother was a great beauty, in her day. Appearances were important to her. And because she was, in a way, too beautiful, she worked hard to keep the show on the road. She loved to be normal; to chat and to charm. When she was 'on', she lit up the room.

I used to be jealous of those strangers, who looked at my mother and loved her for half an hour at a time. Sometimes, it seemed as though we only got the downside: the despair in front of the open wardrobe door, the loneliness when there was no one there to admire. There were times, on the phone, when you could hear the drag in her voice; a loss of belief, as though there might be no one listening on the other end of the line.

I didn't get my mother's looks, but I got some of that thing she had, the lift as you walk into a crowded room. I got some of her chat too, her addiction to the phone. And her avoidance of the phone. There were days she let it ring out, for reasons too painful and absurd to explain. It always worked both ways for Joan. Her pleasures were too deep; she had to manage them constantly. So she always looked 'a fright' or 'fine', which is to say, perfect. And she was tough as h.e.l.l on the rest of the world. Ruthless. What worked, what didn't hundreds of rules about foundation, lipstick, about whether to conceal or reveal: arms over forty, shoulders over fifty, the lines on your neck. Illness was not something she allowed herself. It was so unattractive. And terribly hard on the skin.

My mother lived forever, every time you looked at her, and she smoked like Hedy Lamarr. She was the last smoker in Dublin. She snuck out into the garden to do it, so her grandchildren would not cry.

She was at it again, at Megan's next birthday in Enniskerry. You would look around and find her gone, then just as mysteriously back again. Megan was nine, so this party was a much more civilised affair, with friends from school and parents who dropped them at the kerb. It was amazing how much had changed. Out the back, the rowan tree was a st.u.r.dy, tall thing, and the fence had been rebuilt, to hide the new houses that now blocked their little slice of view. Shay threatened to arrive home and then did not, so it was just myself and Fiona and our mother, and it seemed a long time since we had played at being couples around Fiona's witty formica table, with the men outside, checking the sky for rain. There was no wine. We wandered about, cooking ready-made lasagne and drinking tea, while a tight little herd of nine-year-old girls thundered about the house, trailed by one forlorn little brother.

Joan complained of being tired, took off her too-tight shoes, and fell asleep in an armchair. When she woke, she was agitated by the fact she had nodded off.

'Did I say anything?' then laughed at herself for her consternation.

She was right not to trust us. I had taken a photo of her, a secret one, 'My mother, asleep'. I could not help myself.

I was worried sometimes by the fact that she was on her own in Terenure, we all were her battalions of friends and lost causes notwithstanding but our mother did not look lonely in her sleep, even though she was, in a way, 'alone'. She looked like someone who is loved.

I might be biased. The picture looms on my screensaver and then cross fades but it is never as lovely as I remember her, that day. The older you get the less you dream they say but, absent as she was and utterly still, my mother looked, by some indistinguishable sweetness, very much alive.

And young. She was fifty-nine years old.

When she woke up, all fussed, we laughed and told her she had snored. Then Jack was sent upstairs for saying, 'Granny farted in her sleep. Granny farted.'

'You always have to push it,' shouted Fiona at his busy little legs as they disappeared above her, while Joan, who was genuinely shocked as well as amused, said, 'It's only harmless. Would you leave the child.'

I had a mild interest in Evie that day seeing as I had slept with her father, don't you know but I couldn't figure out which one she was. The girls Megan had invited were ridiculously large and hard to fathom. They wore oversized party dresses, or funky tops; two at least were in tracksuit bottoms you couldn't even tell who they thought they were. These people had, besides, no interest in us, they had each other to love; the way they looked at each other was so pa.s.sionate and shy.

I set out the plates with the real linen napkins that Fiona handed me, and the real gla.s.ses and metal cutlery. I put a jug of sparkling water on the table and another of orange juice; all of which I thought silly. These were big, uncomfortable children, not grown-ups throw a bag of tortilla chips at them, I thought, and retire.

'Who wants lasagne?'

One girl, a tall, soft creature called Saoirse, raised her hand. She was stuffed into a pink satin dress that a five-year-old might choose, and under her arm was a haze of golden-red hair.

I glanced at Fiona. She rolled her eyes in dread.

These children weren't growing, so much as being replaced.

'Come and eat!'

It troubled me quite a bit, actually the hair. It looked beautiful, when it should have been disgusting. And it was twice as disgusting as it should have been, when you looked up from it to the big pudding-face of the child. I should get out more, I thought this can not be as strange as I think it is. And I also thought, Something has gone wrong.

Then I saw Evie. She revealed herself with a flash of her father's too-beautiful eyes. It happened when she looked straight at me, like the opening of a hidden door. She was still a bit puppyish around the chest, but the fat was mostly gone. And something else had changed I mean, apart from everything, because everything had changed but something essential had s.h.i.+fted. She looked happy. Or not happy so much as connected, for once. Not so scared.

It made me uneasy, the idea that she used to be afraid. I wondered what kind of man I had slept with how many months ago now? and would he arrive in through the door. Three months. It was three months since Montreux and I never wanted to lay eyes on Sean Vallely again. I wasn't just mortified, I was actually averse; the thought of speaking to him was slightly soiling, like putting on used clothes after you've had a shower.

Even so, I was caught by his daughter. I watched her, as though she might hold some key to this man, whose eyes seemed to make more sense on her face than they did on his own; the long black lashes just the same, the same sea-grey with a pale sunburst around the pupil, of white or gold.

I had nothing to say to her.

'Would you like some juice?' I asked, as the girls gathered round the table for lasagne and coleslaw not a pink marshmallow in sight.

'Yes please.'

'Oh look at that great hair,' I touched her black curls, which pleased her. 'Do you dry it yourself?'

She was moist with sweat. They all were.

'Sometimes,' she said.

'Or your Mum?'

'If I got straightener, it would be all the way down my back.'

'Well,' I said. By which I meant, 'Time enough.'

'Sometimes my Dad does it,' she said. But this was too intimate for me, and I had to move away.

After the cake and candles, I took out my iPod and found myself in the middle of a sudden clamour of tweenies, demanding Justin Timberlake.

'Hang on,' I said, and obliged the white bud of the earpiece into Evie's ear. As soon as the music came through, they ran off, grabbing for the other earpiece, switching tracks, turning the dial.

'Hey hey hey!' said Fiona, before being diverted by the sound of the doorbell.

The party was over. I hung back while the parents came and, one after another, the children were called away. In the middle of the confusion, the sound of his voice in the hall brought an unexpected pang, and I turned to pick up wrapping paper at the far end of the room.

'Evie!'

He had arrived in the doorway. I was starting to run out of things to clear off the floor when I sensed Evie standing beside me a little too close, the way children do.

'Just give it back,' said Sean's voice, though this was what she was already doing; wrapping the wires around the iPod, as she held it out towards me.

'Thank you, Gina,' she said.

Gina, no less.

'You're welcome,' I said.

'Good girl.'

Sean's voice was so cold, it was clear what he really wanted to say. He wanted to say, 'Please step away from my child,' and this was very unfair. It was so unfair, that I turned and looked straight at him.

'Oh, h.e.l.lo,' I said.

He looked just like himself.

'Come on,' he said, ushering Evie through the doorway. The rudeness was astonis.h.i.+ng. But he faltered and turned back for a moment, and the look he gave me then was so mute, so full of things I could not understand, that I almost forgave him.

I tried to keep it at bay, and failed. When the last small guest was gone and the rubbish bag full of packaging and uneaten lasagne the thought of him the fact of him happened in my chest, like a distant disaster. Something snapped or was broken. And I did not know how bad the damage was.

My hands, as they picked up the heavy jug Fiona used for juice, remembered the solid span of his waist under them that night in Montreux. What was it he had said again? 'You have lovely skin.' It seemed a bit all-purpose, at the time. 'So soft.' Why did men need to persuade themselves? Why did they have to have you, and make you up at the same time?

This, I asked myself, rather foolishly, while holding the thick gla.s.s jug in Fiona's open-plan kitchen in Enniskerry, standing on her new limestone floor (the old terracotta floor was 'all wrong' apparently). I thought about the difference between one man and another when you have your eyes closed. And I said to myself that the difference was enormous. There was no difference greater than the difference between two men when you have your eyes closed. And in my head I dropped the jug and was devastated by its fall. Fiona was loading the dishwasher. Joan was taking the plates out again and rinsing them under the tap. Megan and Jack had disappeared. I could feel it, still there under my hands: thick blown gla.s.s with swirls, in the base, of cobalt blue. Such a beautiful jug. And then I let it go.

She had fits, apparently. This is what Fiona told me when she had cleared the last shards of gla.s.s, not just with a brush but also with the Hoover, because she didn't care about the jug so much as the danger to her children's bare feet. Evie, she said, had fits. Fiona had never actually seen it happen, though for a few years they were all on red alert. The child's mother was driven frantic; had tried everything, from consultants to whatever homeopathic magnets.

'She looked all right to me,' I said.

'No, she's fine now,' said Fiona. 'I think she's fine.'

'She's a funny little person,' I said.

'Is she? I don't know. I mean, everyone was so worried about her. But I don't know.'

'G.o.d. Poor Sean,' I said.

She gave me a look, exaggeratedly blank.

'Up to a point,' she said.

I wanted to know what she meant by that, but she had already turned away.

I watched Megan later, sprawled on the sofa, so healthy and large. Our mother was freshening up. Jack was stuck into his Nintendo. I was waiting to leave. We were all waiting, perhaps, for Shay to come home. The evening had come adrift.

'So birthday girl,' said Fiona, sitting down and hugging her daughter to her. 'How does it feel to be nine?'

'Good,' said Megan.

We sat and pretended to watch the telly. Our mother spends such a long time in the bathroom, it used to make us anxious; wondering what she was up to in there, and when she would emerge. Meanwhile, Megan brushed her own mother's hair back from her face, admired an earring, gave it a tug.

'Careful.'

And the wrangle began: Megan stretching her mother's lips into a painful smile, pulling her eyelids back into slits, while Fiona just looked at her and refused to be annoyed. They had always been like this, locked in something that wasn't exactly love, and not quite war.

'Leave your mother alone, Megan,' I said. 'You're nine, now.'

And Fiona said, 'Hah!'

'Only another twenty years to go,' said Joan. She was standing behind us in her summer trench coat and silk scarf, her mirror work done everything the same as before, except that tiny, crucial bit better. The usual miracle.

She looked at me.

'Will we go?'

I may be getting things in the wrong order here.

I was not yet in love with Sean. Though, at any of those moments, I might have fallen in love with him. Any of them. The first moment in the garden, by the fence that wasn't there. The time he sat in the fold-up chair on the caravan site in Brittas Bay, or went to sit, and everything slowed to a standstill except us two. I could have fallen in love with him in a hotel corridor in Switzerland, when the lock whirred and he stayed to kiss me instead of obliging me through the door.