Cathy Kelly - Once in a Lifetime

‘A bit,’ David admitted ruefully. ‘Jim Fitzgibbon was pouring wine into me.’

Molly chuckled, and left her father to give her mother a hello kiss. ‘Since when has anyone had to pour wine into you, Dad?’ she teased, and just like that, the tension went out of the room.

‘Are you calling me a boozer, you brat?’

Both women laughed.

‘If the cap fits…’ said Molly. ‘Only kidding. Where were you, anyway?’

‘Renaldo’s,’ said Ingrid, getting out another cup for her daughter. She poured more coffee and sat down at the table beside her family.

‘How’s Fiona?’ asked Molly.

‘That’s the problem,’ Ingrid sighed. ‘Jim and Fiona have split up, so we had to meet his new woman. I don’t think she was your cup of tea, either, love?’

Ingrid smiled at her husband, a peacemaking smile to say she was sorry she’d been so angry about having to endure the evening, and could he be sorry for being such a grouch?

‘No,’ David agreed. ‘Sorry about that. On the phone, Jim made her sound like a cross between Mother Teresa and Angelina Jolie.’

Molly’s eyes widened. ‘And was she?’

David’s smile to Ingrid reached his eyes. ‘Not really. She looked fine–’

‘–a bit obvious,’ Ingrid interrupted. ‘A spray-on Gucci mini-dress and pole-dancing sandals isn’t exactly the right outfit for a first-time dinner with your new partner’s oldest friend.’

‘It was the conversation that was the problem,’ David went on. ‘She wants to be in television.’

‘You were listening?’

He grinned. ‘Sorry, I know you thought I wasn’t rescuing you. Despite all his boasting, Jim’s business is in trouble and he wanted to bend my ear about it. I couldn’t interrupt him, but I heard the bit about television.’

‘One of those.’ Molly groaned.

‘How’s Natalie? When’s Lizzie’s wedding?’

‘The fourteenth. Apparently Lizzie’s always had a thing about being married on Valentine’s Day. The hen night’s next weekend and the flat’s full of mad stuff: pink fluffy ears and things.’

Ingrid smiled. Her pre-wedding party had been a very sedate affair compared to the ones girls had now.

‘Are you going to the hen night?’

‘Not so far. Natalie wants me to, but I’m trying to get out of it. Lizzie’s great, but I’m not one of her long-time friends and everyone else on the hen night is. She’s known them for years.’

Ingrid nodded but she felt the catch in her throat she so often felt about her older child. Molly had always been shy, although she hid it well enough. She was friendly and charming, well brought up enough to be polite, so few people would know how shy she was. She’d never been one of those children comfortable in the middle of a group; for the first year of school, she’d cried every single morning when Ingrid left her.

‘Oh, hen parties are all a bit mad now,’ Ingrid said nonchalantly. ‘It’ll probably be wild,’ she added, wishing inwardly that, for once, Molly would want to join in. Ingrid knew that you couldn’t make a person behave in a certain way, but how could two such outgoing people as herself and David have a daughter who was the opposite?

At school, there had never been any special friend, never any one little girl Molly adored and brought home to play. Molly was at her happiest in her own company, reading or talking to the pets–back then, the family had a mad collie with one ear, and a minxy cat who collected small cuddly toys and brought them into her bed at night.

Molly loved to curl up on her bed and read, with one or both of the animals snuggled beside her. Accepting that her daughter was a solitary little person had been one of the toughest lessons Ingrid had ever had to learn.

Ingrid was thrilled that her darling Molly shared a flat with Natalie. They’d met at college and for the first time in her life, Molly had found a close friend.

Both were serious in their own way: Molly with her charity work and Natalie with her absolute dedication to jewellery design. She’d put herself through college and was working part-time in the café in Kenny’s to raise funds to set up her own business. She had lots of drive and ambition, and yet there was a vulnerable side to her, Ingrid felt.

Trust Molly to have held out until she found a friend with integrity.

When Molly had gone, Ingrid walked around tidying up. She loved their house. Guests were surprised to see that it was the antithesis of Kenny’s Edwardian charm. Instead, Ingrid and David’s home was coolly modern, with large open-plan spaces and swathes of pale wall. The floors were bleached wood, except in the kitchen, where the restaurant-style stainless steel was offset by polished poured-concrete slabs. Ingrid’s love of white was reflected in couches and chairs upholstered in warm white loose covers, with colour coming from the artwork on their walls, including many works by the emerging artists that David loved to support. The large burst of colour in the hall came from a giant tapestry from Kenny’s, one of the unusual Bluestone Tapestries. It depicted a wooden house nestled in a glade of trees, all of which was partly obscured by banks of peonies in the foreground.

The nine o’clock news began and David was already yawning. Ingrid watched him affectionately and thought of the joke when they were younger about being ‘in bed before the news’. Of course, back then, they went to bed to make love. These days, that happened somewhat less. Tiredness, Ingrid knew, was a major reason. And although it was a subject they were careful to talk about, it took longer for both of them to get in the mood than it had when they were younger. The wham, bam, thank you, mam days were over. Ingrid had never liked speedy sex anyway, even though it was flattering to think that David couldn’t wait for her, needed to be inside her. But she rarely orgasmed that way: she needed time and gentleness, and now their love-making took time. It suited her, working up to heat instead of exploding into a fireball straight off.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ she said softly.

David looked up from the news, his clever grey eyes intense as they stared at her. Unreadable, she would have said, had it been anyone else. But she knew him and all his moods. She could see desire there.

He flicked off the television with the remote control, stretched long legs out slowly, then got to his feet. He held out his hand: ‘Come on,’ he said.

Their bedroom was one of the only carpeted rooms in the house and as soon as they reached it, Ingrid took off her shoes and let her bare feet luxuriate in the soft wool. She switched on the lamps, letting light warm the room, creating a burnished glow on the expanse of bed covered by a king-sized silk throw in a muted jade colour.

‘Are you too tired?’ she asked David as she sat on the edge of the bed and began unbuttoning her crisp white shirt.

He shook his head, then joined her.

Ingrid hadn’t been a virgin when she’d met David. She’d had three lovers, which, she knew, was quite average. He’d had more and they’d promised never to become jealous of people long gone in the way some couples did.

All Ingrid knew was that her other lovers had never been able to make her feel as if this was the only way to make love, as if now was the most perfect moment. She had no idea how many times they’d gone to bed together over the course of their marriage, but as soon as David’s hand wound its way around her to pull her closer so he could kiss her, she felt that familiar stirring inside.

Tonight, there was an urgency in his kisses and he cradled her skull in both hands as their mouths merged. When he gently pulled her shirt away from her body and curved his fingers over her breasts, it was like he’d never done it before. Ingrid let herself melt into this fresh passion. This was his apology, she knew. He was saying sorry for his distance in the only way he could: by making love to her.