#john cavendish

Saoirse drops her car-keys on the ground when she gets out of her car. She feels dizzy after she bends down to retrieve them, stars tinkling in her ears like coins falling out of a slot machine. She concedes that she is a little bit drunk, but nowhere near drunk enough. She wishes she could have gone back to the resort with Roy, that she could hide in his beachfront cottage with him until he was due to fly back to Bridgeport, and then he could buy her a ticket on the same flight and they would snuggle and sip vintage champagne and feed each other caviar and strawberries washed in angels’ piss or whatever it is they serve in First Class and she would never have to face John again, ever.

She walks up the stairs to the back door but it swings open before she's reached the top step. John stands in the darkened kitchen, his face a shadowy void. A sad chill ripples across her skin.

After one more drink Saoirse says she has to go home. Roy says he will drive her to the Vet Clinic to collect her car. Just before they leave the bar he takes her in his arms and kisses her. All of his senses have been throbbing in anticipation of this moment, and at the first soft touch of her mouth on his Roy knows that he was right, and the damage she is capable of doing to him is infinite, and her eyelashes are the colour of copper coins, and she tastes of warm cider distilled with one thousand beautiful, lost and aching memories. 

Roy: When are you going to tell your husband? Tonight? 

Saoirse shakes her head, her fingertips burning the back of his neck.

Saoirse: I think I’ll have to tell him tomorrow. He’ll be in bed. He goes to bed at 9.30 every night. He’s a creature of habit.      

The past few hours in Roy's company had caused John to fade and shrink in Saoirse's mind until he'd become something little more substantial than a cardboard cut out. So to see him before her like this, three-dimensional and angry and animated is a sobering shock. Even more shocking are the words he is spitting at her. She pauses, genuinely confused.

[previous]

6.44 pm

Saoirse: Alright. But I'd better ring John. It's my turn to cook dinner tonight.

John doesn't say anything when he picks up the phone. She can hear him breathing, quick shallow breaths. She can't hear the TV.

Saoirse: Hi, hon. Can you hear me? John: I can hear you.

His tone makes the air seem a few degrees cooler.

Saoirse: There's an emergency at work and I have to stay behind a bit longer to give Dr. Evans a hand.

There is an appreciative murmur of amusement from Dr. Evans at her choice of words.

Saoirse: I should be home in about half an hour. Is that okay? John: It was your turn to cook dinner. It's important that I eat dinner at a reasonable hour. Otherwise I'm up all night with reflux. You know that. Saoirse: Yes. I do know. I'm very sorry, John. But it couldn't be helped. I'll start dinner as soon as I get home. Or would you like me to pick up something on the way home instead? John: You know what? Don't worry about it. I'll just make myself some soup. Saoirse: John, please don't be angry-

But he's hung up.

Saoirse and her husband John take turns cooking dinner; tonight it is John's turn, and he left work an hour early to go to the shops and buy the ingredients for one of Saoirse's favourite meals, glistening slabs of grilled salmon accompanied by a Mediterranean salad and sourdough garlic bread. Saoirse smells the warm welcoming scents of roasted garlic and butter as soon as she walks through the door; she stops to absorb the scene and to marvel at the ordinariness of it, the way she is able to smile at John and go and obediently wash and dry her hands and sit down at the table as if this is just any normal Tuesday evening.  

John: How was your day? Saoirse: Fine. How was yours? John: Back-to-back meetings. 

Saoirse screws her mouth up sympathetically.

John: Why aren't you eating? You're just pushing the food around your plate. Isn't grilled salmon your favourite? Saoirse: I'm sorry, John. I don't have much of an appetite. John: Did you have a big lunch? Saoirse: I didn't actually eat anything for lunch. John: Why's that? Was there an emergency at the clinic?

Saoirse stares at her plate and shakes her head.

John Cavendish aesthetic