The Truth Club by Grace Wynne-Jones

it.’
    I look at some chewing gum on the ground. I thought pregnancy was supposed to make women placid. What’s hap pened to the sweet, understanding Fiona – the Fiona who knows that people can want all sorts of things they shouldn’t?
    She gets up, arduously, and places a hand on her back. We set off on our walk again. It seems to me Fiona shouldn’t be walking; she should be at home, watching something silly and escapist on the television. Maybe she sometimes takes this self-discipline stuff just a bit too far. I assume she’ll get round to my marriage at any moment. Heaven knows what she’ll say, but it is unlikely to be flattering. If Diarmuid were to be as bolshie as Fiona’s being just now, I’d find it far harder to forgive. Why do we expect so much more from lovers and husbands than from friends?
    The pier is suddenly full of brisk walkers, people who do this kind of thing regularly and at a certain time; people who know the benefits of sea air and exercise. Dublin’s proximity to the sea is one of its greatest comforts, especially now that the city has got so sleek and modern and uppity. There is still this space where things are as they have always been; this great expanse of water, w ith the tall, striped towers of the Pigeon House in the distance. We rely on so many things to remain unchanged, but so few of them do. We so often base our lives on things that are bound to alter.
    Fiona sits down on one of the benches again and says, ‘I think I’ll just take a breather.’ She is puffing and panting. I smile at her. Suddenly I hope with all my heart that her baby is healthy and bonny and doesn’t drive her demented by screeching at all hours of the night. I feel protective of her. I wonder what I would do if she started her contractions here, now, on this pier. I would probably mutter something about deep breaths while I sum moned help. Just for a moment, I feel a small surge of panic.
    This subsides when Fiona gets up again and we resume our walk. She seems unusually preoccupied this evening. I almost ask her what’s on her mind, but another look at her face tells me she isn’t quite ready to speak about it, whatever it is. It’s probably normal worries, worries that anyone who is expecting a baby might have. Any minute now the calming baby hormones will kick in again, and she’ll be serene and smiling and glowing.
    A young couple walks past us. They are so close together, pressed against each other’s bodies. His arm is around her back protectively. She has a daisy chain in her hair. She is laughing, and he is watching, drinking in the look and the smell of her – the shape of her mouth, the goofy, incomparable sweetness of her gummy teeth. She is everything to him in that moment. The diamond on her finger sparkles.
    I cannot bear to watch them. It is petty and miserly of me to turn away; but it’s just that I’ve never had that. I’ve never had that closeness with anyone. I don’t even know how it’s done. How can people become so unselfconscious – lost to everyone except each other, sealed so blissfully in that sweetness? It’s what I always wanted most, and what I grew to know I’d never find.
    And the thing is, I never knew I wanted this icing so much until I married Diarmuid. It loosened something inside me – all the dreams I thought I’d tucked away and sensibly forgotten. I will have to forget them again somehow. I must find a way. Because then I will be the Sally I knew again, and not this bewildered stranger.
    Fiona seems to be gulping. I look at her with consternation. We’re not even near a bench. ‘What is it, Fiona?’ I take her arm.
    ‘Oh, Sally…’ Her eyes are wide and plaintive. ‘Did I make you marry Diarmuid?’
    ‘Why on earth would you say that?’ I exclaim. ‘Of course you didn’t!’
    ‘But you caught the bouquet at my wedding. I wanted you to catch it. I threw it in your direction.’
    ‘Erika made a grab for it too.’ I smile. ‘This is