Lifesaving for Beginners by Ciara Geraghty Read Free Book Online Page A

‘What?’
    ‘Guess.’
    ‘Takeaway.’
    He smiles. ‘No, I mean your favourite home-cooked meal.’
    Before Thomas came to stay, I didn’t have a favourite home-cooked meal unless you count cheese and ham toasties.
    ‘I’m not guessing. I have no idea.’
    He says, ‘Goulash,’ and lifts the lid off a gigantic saucepan to reveal a thick, bloody, boiling mass. He lowers the lid – so carefully, as if he’s anxious not to disturb it – then looks at his watch and says, ‘Dinner in eighteen minutes.’
    I say, ‘Why do you think goulash is my favourite home-cooked dinner?’
    He says, ‘Because you loved it when I cooked it for you the last time. Remember? You had a cold and I cooked you goulash and it was really, really hot because I put a bit too much paprika into it, and you said it was better than a bottle of Night Nurse because the minute you ate it, you were cured, remember?’
    ‘No.’
    He refills my glass.
    He says, ‘Don’t worry about the kitchen; I’ll clean it up.’
    He says, ‘Don’t worry about the goulash; it’s not as hot as the last time.’
    He says, ‘Don’t worry about the lemon and ginger biscuits; they’re supposed to look like that.’
    I’m going out of my mind.
    It’s later when I come up with the plan. It’s not a lie as such. It’s more like self-defence. I throw myself a lifebelt. I have to. It’s either that, or say, ‘Look, it’s not you. It’s me.’ Anyway, it’s not like I want to break up or anything as drastic as that. I just need . . . a break. A mini-break. That’s all.
    I say, ‘Brona is anxious to see some of the new manuscript and I haven’t got much so far so I was thinking about barricading myself into the apartment, switching off the phones and just getting down to it.’ I don’t mention that I haven’t written any of the new manuscript. None of it. Not one word since the accident. The bloody miracle.
    Thomas smiles and says, ‘Good idea. I’m glad you’re getting back to work. It’s a good sign.’ He puts his hand on mine. His smile is one of those encouraging ones. His tone is a master class in tenderness. I feel like I’m being crushed to death in the back of a bin lorry.
    I say, ‘So I was wondering if you could . . .’
    ‘You want me to make myself scarce?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘No problem. I need to spend some time on the farm anyway. It’s coming up to harvest time. Need to make hay while the sun shines, eh?’
    He leaves early the next morning, when I’m still in bed. I’m half asleep when he comes to kiss me goodbye. His hair is damp from the shower. He smells of my Clinique shower gel, which I’m always telling him not to use. He kisses me for ages and I worry about my breath because I haven’t brushed my teeth yet, but he just keeps on kissing me, as if there’s nothing to worry about at all. Then he takes off all his clothes again and gets back into bed and we have sex and Thomas calls it ‘one for the road’.
    He says, ‘Give me a call. I know you’re writing. But the odd time. OK? Just to let me know you’re all right.’
    ‘Why wouldn’t I be all right?’
    ‘Well, maybe you might be wondering if I’m OK.’
    ‘You’ll be fine.’
    ‘A farm is a dangerous place, you know.’
    ‘It’s not a farm. It’s five stony fields.’
    ‘Five grand big fields.’
    I say, ‘See you next week.’
    He says, ‘Kiss me again, for luck.’
    Then he says, ‘Hang on, I’ve left my wallet in the bathroom.’
    Then he says, ‘Wait, I’d better take some of those lemon and ginger biscuits for the journey.’
    ‘It’s an hour’s drive, for God’s sake.’
    After a very, very long time, he leaves. I stand in the hall and breathe it in. The silence. It’s like something physical, the silence. Something you can get a hold of.
    I am alone in the apartment. I can do anything I like. Nobody will say, ‘Are you all right?’ or ‘How are you feeling?’ or ‘Isn’t it such a bloody miracle that you’re