Читать книгу The Country of Our Dreams - Mary O'Connell - Страница 22

‘I’m dying.’ Hilary moaned into her crumpled pillow. Her head pounded.

‘A swim will see you right’. Vianney sat on their bed putting on his brand new running shoes. The new counsellor had suggested exercise as well. So he was running every morning. Even after a huge party.

She winced at the thought of the cold winter sea – and longed for it. ‘Carry me there.’

‘Make your own way,’ he quoted the Sportsgirl slogan at her.

That was impossible. ‘At least make me a cup of tea, you cold hearted bastard’.

‘Now, now,’ he slapped her legs through the tangled sheets and left the room. She dimly recalled some struggle in the night. She had wanted to make love but he had said she was too drunk, and that her breath was disgusting with the cigarettes. She’d only had two. And she’d said it was a bit hard living with St John Vianney. So of course that was that. Once in one of his insulted and offended moods, he would never have sex with her.

She faded out a little again, but then he was there, with a mug of hot tea.

‘Oh thank you’ she said, but couldn’t quite raise her head to lift and drink it. Never again. She was getting too old for parties.

‘Hils,’ Vianney began, his tone suddenly serious.

‘Yes, what?’ Hilary was helplessly gazing at the steam rising from the mug of tea. So near yet so far away.

‘I’m going to Ireland.’

She turned her head towards him – a shaft of light and pain broke out from the back of her neck. ‘When?’

Vianney was looking at his feet, contemplating his extremely expensive new runners. ‘Next month. There’s a couple of festivals on that I want to go to. West Cork has a literary festival. I might do a screenwriting class, and then there’s the Galway Arts Festival.’ His voice lifted with excitement. He got off the bed and walked bouncily around. ‘I really want to see Iarla O’Lionáird perform again. Maybe even get to meet him. And I’ll probably do some family research as well, visit Davitt’s grave and see the museum, and I might do a sean-nós master class.’

She looked at him, felt his excitement. Clearly this was no sudden idea. This was planning. He stopped bouncing on his shoes and looked back at her. Smiled even, as if her silence meant she just wanted more explanation. ‘It will be great to be singing in the Tradition.’

I know what fucking sean-nós singing is, she thought. ‘So when do we go?’ She was playing dumb.

‘We don’t. I am.’

‘You are?’ Really dumb.

‘This is for me.’

Hilary felt a surge of anger – rising like reflux in her throat.

‘David said I needed to do something I really wanted to do.’

‘Christ almighty – who is this fucking counsellor!’ Hilary propped herself up in the bed, ignoring the spinning head. ‘I’m going to go see this guy.’

‘No you’re not’. His voice, friendly enough up to now, came down hard and cold. Very cold. ‘You could just try and take some action yourself about your own life.’

She flopped back onto the bed. ‘Gee that was nasty.’

He didn’t respond. Just stood up and walked out, off to the coastal walkway on his brand new exercise schedule.