Two Fridays in April by Roisin Meaney

Author:Roisin Meaney [Meaney, Roisin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000
ISBN: 9781444799538
Publisher: Hachette Ireland
Published: 2015-03-05T07:00:00+00:00

‘Daphne,’ she says, ‘how are you feeling?’

It’s a quarter to nine. It hasn’t taken her long to fill two suitcases with what she wants to take from this house. Nothing he gave her, none of the jewellery, none of the perfume. The laptop she unwrapped on Christmas morning still sits on the desk beside the window.

‘My car was stolen,’ Daphne replies.

It’s so unexpected it takes a few seconds to process. Isobel draws a breath. ‘God – when? Where?’

As she listens to Daphne’s response, she becomes aware that the day has taken on a quality of unreality. She looks about the bedroom and everything – her coat thrown across the bed, the suitcases by the door, the emptied-out dressing table, the wedge of light thrown onto the carpet by the open bathroom door – everything looks unfamiliar, as if she has wandered into someone else’s bedroom, someone else’s house, by mistake.

She crosses to the window and looks out. The encroaching darkness has washed the colour from the garden, but the kitchen light casts a yellow rectangle on the lawn. She tries to take stock.

Her marriage is over.

She doesn’t know where she’s going to sleep tonight.

Daphne’s car has been stolen.

Finn has been dead a year today.

She becomes aware that Daphne has fallen silent. She pulls herself back. ‘Really awful, I’m so sorry. Have you reported it?’

‘Of course.’ A little tartly.

‘Let’s hope they find it.’

Silence. Isobel searches for a more positive topic: they both need it. ‘How’s the birthday going?’

‘Una isn’t here. She’s having dinner in a friend’s house. It’s just me and Mo.’

‘Oh … well, do wish her a happy birthday from me when she gets home, won’t you?’

‘I will.’

She can make out the clematis, clambering over the garden wall. It will be good this year, its third. She won’t be here to see it bloom.

‘Daphne,’ she says.

‘Yes?’

She could ask; Daphne would surely say yes. She could make it clear that it would only be for a few nights, until she got herself sorted.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m still here … I was just wondering …’

She stops. She can’t do it; the words won’t come. What if Daphne says no, what then?

‘Wondering what?’

‘Well, I … Look, can we have lunch, sometime next week? There’s … something I need to talk to you about, something I need to tell you.’ Daphne will have to know; Jack too.

A tiny pause. ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

‘No, not really. At least, I’d rather do it in person, if that’s alright. Maybe Monday?’

More silence. ‘OK,’ Daphne says eventually.

They make an arrangement. There’s another brief pause. Stop, start, always the way with them.

Isobel thinks of something. ‘George is house-hunting,’ she says.

‘He told me.’

Of course he told her. Daphne probably knew before Isobel did.

‘I was at the cemetery earlier,’ she says. A long time ago, it seems now, since she stood in front of Finn’s grave and wept bitterly. ‘I saw the beautiful yellow roses, I presume they came from you.’

Nothing.

‘Daphne?’

‘I didn’t get to the cemetery today,’ Daphne says, her voice sounding peculiar. ‘I was too late, with the car—’

‘Oh, no—’

‘By the time I got there, it was closed.

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