Page 22 of For Love or Money
‘See, you can’t do it,’ Lesley said triumphantly. ‘You can’t think of one fecking thing—’
‘I can, I just—’
‘What is it, then?’ Come on,’ she said impatiently, snapping her fingers once more, ‘out with it.’
‘Big breasts!’ Al shouted.
‘What?’ Lesley froze, ceasing all foot-tapping and finger-snapping instantly.
‘Aargh, sorry,’ Al said, clutching his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m not good under pressure. You kept snapping your fingers at me, and shouting, and it just came out.’
‘That was the first thing that came into your head?’
‘Sorry. Let me try again. You have beautiful eyes.’
‘Thanks,’ Lesley said, secretly pleased. Her eyes were her best feature – after her amazing rack.
8
At six-thirty Peter gave up on sleep. He was still suffering from jet lag since returning to Dublin two days earlier, and had been awake since four. He threw off the duvet with a weary sigh, got out of bed and started performing a half-hearted salute to the sun, but abandoned it halfway through. Maybe he’d try again later. He was too stiff this early in the morning. It took him longer to limber up these days. Everything took longer, he thought with annoyance.
It was such a bore growing old, your body no longer doing what you wanted it to without complaint, fighting you every step of the way. It was nature’s way of seeing you off, he supposed – all part of Mother Nature’s evil plan. Your body became slower to heal, as it grew more prone to insult and injury. ‘Insult’ was the term one of his doctors in LA had used for what had happened to his heart. It seemed pleasingly apt – hefeltinsulted. He wasn’t done with life yet – not by a long shot. He may not be as agile as he’d once been, but he was still fit. Catching his reflection in the cheval mirror, he gave his flat stomach a self-satisfied pat. Only last month he’d featured in a list of the hottest men alive, albeit in the over-seventies category and polling behind Harrison Ford.
He pulled on a robe and drew the curtains. The cool morning breeze was welcome as he stepped through the French doors onto the balcony. LA had nothing on this, he thought, breathing in a deep lungful of salty sea air. From its cliff-top position, his house had a panoramic view of the broad sweep of Killiney Bay.
Across the water, the sun was hovering just above the horizon, a shimmering yellow ball throwing a sparkling path across the water. The sky was shades of grey, shot through with pale rays of light. Peter closed his eyes and listened to the soothing sounds of waves foaming over the rocks below, intensely aware of how lucky he was to be here – to have escaped death and have the world restored to him; to be still breathing the delicious morning air, surrounded by so much beauty. He had lived a reckless, profligate kind of life, squandering his health, his marriage, the love of his life. But miraculously he’d got away with it and been given another chance – and he wasn’t going to push his luck this time. He’d start living a quieter, healthier, more peaceful life – and this house was the perfect place to do it.
He heard the front door close softly and opened his eyes to see Stella slipping quietly out of the house in her running clothes, her strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her trainer-clad feet crunched across the gravel as she walked to the gate. Peter felt a shock of unfamiliarity at the sight of her, almost wondering what this woman was doing in his home – this virtual stranger who was his fiancée. He watched as she headed for the steps that led to the beach and disappeared out of sight.
He’d been with a lot of women since his divorce – and before it, he thought with a pang of guilt – but he’d never considered settling down with any of them. It wasn’t really the point of going out with younger women. When he was with them, he felt young and carefree, and his relationships had been light-hearted, casual fun. They had never promised each other anything beyond a good time.
He knew what a cliché he was, serially dating a string of nubile beauties less than half his age. He was well aware that in the public imagination he’d become the archetypal lecherous old man – he’d read the sneery articles and blog posts. But despite what people might think, however stunning his girlfriends had been, it was never just about their looks.
They were all beautiful, of course – lovely in a way they wouldn’t even realise until it was too late. He couldn’t deny the allure of their tight, smooth skin and supple bodies; their bright eyes and soft, silky hair. But that wasn’t the sum total of their appeal. He knew how ridiculous it would sound if he claimed it was their conversation that attracted him, but it happened to be true – at least partly.
He loved the things they talked about – their hopes and dreams, their plans for the future. But even more than that, he loved the things theydidn’ttalk about – disappointments and failures; regrets about the past. He adored their ignorance and superficiality – all the things they didn’t know about time and loss; the lessons they’d yet to learn about remorse and defeat. The sense that they had more of life ahead of them than behind gave them the confidence to be bold and adventurous, and he admired their recklessness, the audacious risks they took with lovers, with careers; even with life and limb. They didn’t need to play it safe because there was plenty of time. That was the real secret of their magical attraction: time was what everyone wanted, and they had it in abundance. So he had clung to their youth like a life raft, as if it could save him if he stayed close – almost as if it might rub off.
Then he’d had his heart attack, and he’d realised what an idiot he’d been. It was as if a veil had been lifted, and he’d seen things as they really were. He felt like he’d been on a terrifying roller coaster with all these silly young women shrieking and laughing their heads off, completely oblivious to the fact that they were all hurtling full pelt towards their doom. Suddenly their youthful folly wasn’t so adorable and seemed just that – folly. They were all too young and naive – too bloody stupid – to see that no matter how much you enjoyed the ride, it would always end the same way. He was the only one with the sense to be petrified.
Lying in his hospital bed, shaking with relief that he had woken up to another day, he’d found himself craving some calm and stability in his life. He’d wanted to get off the roller coaster and be down on the ground with the people who were strolling along hand-in-hand eating ice-cream, perhaps walking a dog or watching a grandchild wobbling around on a bike. He’d realised he didn’t want to die alone, and that was where he was heading. So he’d grabbed the person nearest to him and clung on for dear, dear life – and that person happened to be Stella.
It had been the impulse of a moment, asking her to marry him, prompted solely by fear and panic. But it had been fortuitous, and he didn’t regret it. He realised now that Stella was just the sort of person he should be with at this juncture in his life. She was so much more mature and self-possessed than he’d been at her age – than he’d been a year ago, for that matter.
He was looking forward to making a life here with her. When the weather was warmer, he’d take her out in the boat to the little private cove, where they could sunbathe naked. He felt a little stirring of desire at the thought, and he smiled. Mother Nature could fuck right off. There was plenty of life in him yet, and he was going to suck the marrow out of every last drop.
* * *
After her run,Stella stood on the beach, looking out over the glittering water of the bay as she did her stretches. It was so beautiful in the early morning sunshine, and she felt a sudden burst of joy and gratitude that somehow, after everything she had been through, she had washed up safe on this shore. Filled with a sense of peace and wellbeing that she hadn’t experienced in a long time, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever twist of fate had led her here.
She turned and climbed the steps up the cliff to the back of the house, entering quietly by the side door so as not to disturb Peter if he was still sleeping. In the kitchen she grabbed her mobile from the worktop and hit Dan’s number. She listened to it ring as she opened the fridge and took out the stuff to make her morning smoothie.
‘Hi,’ Dan croaked, sounding sleepy. She smiled, picturing him rubbing his eyes, and ruffling his wayward hair.
‘Sorry to call so early,’ she said. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Yeah. It’s fine.’ He was speaking quietly, and Stella wondered if he was still in bed, his wife sleeping beside him.
‘Just hang on, I’m going to go downstairs,’ he said.
