Belinda McKeon - Tender

“Ha,” Catherine said.

“Lover,” Julia repeated, rolling her eyes. “As though the rest of us are only going to Mass together.”

“Ha.”

“Anyway, what else are you writing about these days? Apart from Ed’s photos?”

“Well, I’m writing an essay, mostly, at the moment,” Catherine said. “For one of my English courses.”

“Oh, of course,” Julia said, her gaze drifting away. “You have to get your degree .” She gave degree the same intonation she had given lover: a low drawl of derision. Catherine hesitated to go on.

“Yeah,” she said, then. “I’m writing about Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath.”

“Oh, Jesus, ” said Julia, in the manner of someone who had just heard a very unfortunate piece of news. “What’s possessing you to do that?”

“The new book,” Catherine said, adding “His,” then, hardly necessarily.

“Oh, that book is insane, isn’t it? Insane. ”

“It’s pretty intense, all right.”

“Intense? It’d give you nightmares for a month,” Julia said, shaking her head. “What was he thinking, writing those poems?”

“Well…”

“God, he’s such a fine figure of a man, though. Physically, I mean. We met him at a festival where Mick was reading a few years ago. Honestly. The whole room would weaken when he’d walk into it. Men, women, the lot of us.”

“I’m sure,” Catherine said, laughing nervously.

“But really, are you not just depressing yourself, writing about those two? I mean, it’s a terribly sad story. An awful waste.”

“I know,” Catherine said. “But really, I’m interested in the poems rather than in the lives.”

Julia smiled that same strange smile again. “I believe you,” she said, after a long moment. “Thousands wouldn’t.” Then she nodded at something over Catherine’s shoulder. “Oh, about bloody time.”

Then Mick Doonan was upon them, muddle-handing three glasses of champagne.

“Here we go, ladies,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Sorry about the delay. Forced diversion to Lesbos.”

“I’m sure you minded.” Julia cut her eyes at him. “Catherine here is just telling me she’s writing an essay about Ted Hughes.”

“Hughes?” Doonan said, as though Julia had just mentioned a difficult neighbor. “Huh.”

“Hughes and Plath, really,” Catherine offered, in response to which Doonan made a face of droll horror.

“Oh, Jaysus,” he said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Hughes. Hmm. Ever interview him, did you?”

“God, no,” Catherine said through a splutter of disbelieving laughter. “I’d die if I had to interview him. I mean, I’d love to. I’d never be able to, though.”

“Now, make up your mind, darling,” Julia said.

Doonan was looking at her archly. “Is that what you were like about the prospect of interviewing me?”

Catherine stammered. “Well…”

“Oh, leave her alone, Mick,” Julia said. “Sure you couldn’t blame her.”

“I’d say he’d give you the runaround and all,” Doonan said, sipping his champagne.

“I’m sure he’d be a perfect gentleman,” Julia said. “What do you think, Catherine?”

“I don’t know,” Catherine said, sweating now. “I mean, it’s hard to believe that he’s still actually alive. That he’s out there, writing something.”

Doonan gave a snuffle of protest. “For Christ’s sake, he’s only eight years older than me!”

“Well,” Catherine shrugged, “I meant in terms of, not age, but—”

“I know what you mean, Catherine,” Julia said, putting a hand on her arm.

“You mean stature,” Doonan said grouchily.

“Oh, shut up, Mick. You have absolutely nothing to complain about.”

Doonan clicked his tongue loudly and switched his attention to the photograph behind them. “What in the name of fuck is this, anyway?” he said, apparently to himself.

“Mick,” Julia said in a warning tone.

“What’s this lassie meant to stand for? The Black Kesh, is it?”

“Mick, please, ” Julia said, still more sharply. “You’re making Catherine uncomfortable. And me, I might add.”

“Atlantic Avenue,” Doonan snorted. “Atlantic Ocean would be the best place for this stuff.”

“I love the way you’re wearing that cameo, by the way,” Julia said suddenly, and she reached out and touched the brooch with the cracked surface that Catherine had used to fasten her scarf. “So clever.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ve had it for ages. My father gave it to me.”

“ Very nice. Does he collect?”

“Oh, no, no,” Catherine said, laughing, thinking of how her father had found the brooch one evening while he was out foddering the cattle; it must have fallen from a car, he had told Catherine, or maybe — he had preferred this idea — it had been buried for years and had only just come to the surface. It was almost intact, but not quite; part of the bone had fallen away.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Doonan said skeptically.

A ditch in Longford, Catherine was tempted to say, but she just smiled in what she hoped was a mysterious manner.

“That’s the point,” Julia said.

“Oh, you’re a deconstructionist, are you?” Doonan said with a theatrical shudder. “Well, keep it to yourself, darling, will you please.”

“Hello?!” she hissed two minutes later, grabbing James by the elbow; he was still part of the same group of people, which had expanded considerably, now forming several separate clumps, but still with Dunne at the center of it all, beaming, chuckling, receiving compliments, delivering evidently hilarious replies. James, as she marched up to him, had been watching Dunne reverently, as though making careful mental notes. He turned to her now, and when he smiled, it was blissful and radiant; he was high on champagne, obviously, but also on the thrill of having been included by these people, folded in by them, of having received their attention, their interest, their apparent respect.

“Hello, darling,” he said, moving to make room for her, but Catherine indicated with her eyes that she wanted him to step away; reluctantly, he did so. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “Have you met—”

“Thanks for abandoning me,” she said, and it came out more angrily than she had in fact intended, but it was too late to do anything about that now. James, an empty glass in his hand, seemed to reel with confusion for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I abandon you? You were the one who walked away from me when we were talking to Nate.”

“Nate from Brooklyn,” she said sarcastically, pronouncing the words the way Julia Doonan had.

James frowned uncertainly. “Yes. Nate. Ed’s assistant.”

“Yeah, well,” Catherine said sulkily. “I’ve been on my own for the last twenty minutes.” It was an outright lie, and it surprised her, but it had worked; James was moving towards her, looking remorseful.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said plainly, and he put his arms around her, and he kissed her on the cheek, and he kissed her — giving, then, his usual little growl — close to the ear, and Catherine felt it in her spine, and she felt it in her crotch, and she forgave him; of course, instantly she forgave him.

“I got us invited to the after-party,” she said, still using the same sulky tone, which made no sense, but she found that she was not quite able to snap out of it.

James scrunched up his face. “I thought you were on your own for twenty minutes?”

“Well, apart from Michael Doonan and his wife,” she shrugged. “And they’re throwing the party. And we’re invited.”