‘You poor girl.’
Fighting an urge to snatch the card, Orla nodded.
‘That is hard.’ Maude laid it on the table, a hand palm down either side of it. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘Not yet.’ Orla moved the card a centimetre or so, further from the glasses, further from the chaos spilt Barolo could wreak. ‘I don’t need to.’
‘Explain, dear.’
‘I know what it says.’
‘Happy Valentine’s Day, presumably,’ suggested Maude. ‘Did Sim sign them or just put a question mark? I always put question marks.’
‘Sim always signs them. Signed them. He’s – he was very good at cards. Made them special, you know?’
‘I can guess.’ Maude’s eyes, though tired, were set to optimum twinkle.
‘The valentine contains a proposal.’ Orla sucked her lips, then carried on. ‘So, really, Sim asked me to marry him before he died.’
‘Are you sure?’ In the candlelight it was hard to tell whether Maude’s expression was one of delight or horror.
‘As sure as sure can be.’
‘I dolove that accent. Even the four minute warning before a nuclear apocalypse would sound charming in a light Irish accent.’
Orla obliged. ‘Attention. The end of the world is nigh.’
‘Exactly!’ They were both silent for a moment. ‘What would your answer have been?’
‘The loudest yes in the history of yesses.’
‘Then why not read the proposal, answer it in your head, and tuck the card away somewhere safe?’
‘Maude, I can’t break my heart twice in a month.’
‘You will read it.’ Maude was all action and energy, sweeping away the tray to the sink and returning with another bottle. ‘Shall I tell you when?’
‘If you like.’ Orla was tired, deep in her bones. Never a massive drinker, she found the second bottle of wine awoke a frightening thirst.
‘When you’re happy.’
Orla spluttered. Maude continued.
‘Happiness creeps in by the window if you lock the door. Trust me. I’ve been as sad as you but look at me now. Cheerful as a, well, I’m no good at similes. Cheerful as a postbox. Right now you’re certain that you’ll never again giggle till you break wind, but I solemnly promise you will. Look.’ Maude lifted her profile and raised her glass. ‘This is me. Solemnly promising.’
‘I’m normally better company than this.’ Maude was trying so hard with her dreadful audience.
‘Dear, you’re at sixes and sevens. Is this your first bereavement?’
‘No. My father died when I was twenty-one.’ Jaysus, twelve years ago . Daddy was already a decade out of date; he’d never heard of Barack Obama, never seen Avatar , nor met four of his seven grandchildren. ‘That was different, though. Daddy was ill for ages. I moved home. It was calm.’ The family popping in and out. Tea in the pot. Father Gerry hovering. Jim Cassidy had died a traditional Irish death. Nothing left unsaid. By the time he let go of Ma’s hand one dawn the poor man was worn out from I love you s. ‘With Sim, it’s been too fast. I can’t take it in. How a man so healthy can just …’ Orla tailed off, reluctant to inflict her incessant inner chorus on Maude. ‘So much is left unsaid. Sorry. Like I said, I’m not normally this odd.’
‘I’velost many people I was mad about,’ said Maude, her high cheekbones saucily red from the alcohol. ‘It’s vile. Different every time. You have my permission to be as batty as you like for as long as you’re here.’
‘That won’t be long,’ said Orla hastily. ‘I’ll be gone the day after tomorrow at the latest.’ Discreetly, firmly, she reclaimed the valentine. ‘As soon as I’ve found the journal.’
Sim’s journal
10 May 2011
It’s still sinking in. I got the part. I am the Comte de Caylus in The Courtesan .
I hope you can keep secrets, dear Journal, because at long last my life is going to get INTERESTING.
Chapter Five
‘Orla?It’s Ma. Can you talk?’
‘Howaya Ma?’
‘So. A week already.’ [Pause] ‘I said , love, a