Alberta Clipper (10 page)

“Hey Amanda.  Fancy one of these?”

“Aw great, Chris, you are a total star.  I’m gagging for a coffee, and a pee actually.  I’m on my own this morning, and things are a little hectic.”
 
The low buzz of the phone interrupted them.  “CarltonWachs, Amanda speaking.  Of course Mr. Radcliff.  One moment.”  She clicked her mouse.  “Luke, Charles Radcliff for you.  O
kay, no problem.”  She glanced up at Christine.  “Sorry Chris.”

The phone buzzed again.  Christine drank her coffee, watching Amanda filter calls for Mark and
Shay
with great efficiency.  “Thanks again for this,” Amanda raised her mug.  “I really needed it.”

“No problem.  You’re busy.  I’ll go.  But hey, do you know why Marcus Wells is here?  I saw him in with Mark.”  Christine couldn’t be certain, but she thought that Amanda reddened slightly.

“I’m not sure, Chris.  I think they might be a bit concerned about the institutional desk.  I don’t really understand it.”

“I thought the question mark was over the UK desk, though?”  Christine looked at Amanda.  Amanda just shrugged.  The phone buzzed again.  Christine gave her a silent wave goodbye, and walked back over to her office.  She observed the institutional desk as she passed.  There didn’t seem to be anything different or unusual about it.  She caught Damien Forde’s eye, just as his gaze dropped to its usual level, halfway between her neck and her umbilicus.  She ignored him, and looked over to Craig’s desk.  No one there.  He was probably out schmoozing clients.  When she saw him walking back to his desk from the direction of the men’s washroom, she turned and met him at his chair.

“Quick lunch later?  I won’t have much time, but we could run to the pub?” 

“So you’ve forgiven me for outing your secret lover?”  He grinned at her, but there was a hint of admission in his eyes. 

“It appears I have.”  Christine leaned against Craig’s desk, trying to peer into Mark’s office.  “What do you think is going on in there?”

Craig glanced over.  “Dunno.  Look, I’m actually a bit snowed under here, sweet-cheeks.  I’ve got a golf outing in the morning and I’ll be away all day, so I’d better stay here and get my desk sorted.  Sorry.”

“No worries.”  Christine drained her coffee.  She lifted a coffee cup from Craig’s desk, and checked to see it was empty before taking it with her own back to the coffee room.

~

The weather was still good on Friday when Christine arrived in Mallin Station at eight o’clock. 
After what had been
the hott
est June in Dublin for
years, July was
showing no signs of cooling down
.  The restaurant was adjacent to the train station, so she ran to the station washroom to check her hair and make-up before walking out on to the street.  She could see
Gavan
waiting for her, looking out at the sea.  Dun Laoghai
re harbour was protected by
granite piers which stretched out like
two
strong arms, holding the small boats that traversed the still waters within their embrace.  Twenty or more little sail boats were there that evening, most likely a sailing school’s beginners’ class, while larger boats and windsurfers littered the waters on the other side of the pier walls, making the most of the fine weather. 
Gavan
seemed to be engrossed in the spectacle.  She walked up behind him, unsure how to greet him, but as she approached he turned and a big smile lit his face.

“Hey there,” he said.  He stood before her.  They were almost touching, but he paused, almost as if to savour the moment.  She was about to say something innocuous like ‘hello’, when he took her face in his hands and kissed her. 

And there it was.  The feeling they had shared on Saturday nig
ht.  It had continued through to
Sunday morning, but when he had left, Christine had been unce
rtain of its authenticity.  He
had texted
her on
Sunday
evening, and
phoned her on Tuesday to arrange this date.  But she hadn’t been certain that he had felt it too.  Until this moment.  Wow – was this how it worked when you were grown-up?  She remembered second dates being generally more awkward than first – now, it appeared if you knew, you knew.  There was no pretence.  No games.  After the kiss, standing there on the steps of the restaurant enveloped in his arms, Christine had the crazy thought that if she and
Gavan
were to run off and get married, right now, if it were possible, they would probably stand as good a chance as any couple.  She sniggered into his linen jacket at the thought of it, and then pulled away, leaving a small damp patch on his lapel. 

“Sorry!”  She giggled and tried to wipe it.

“Lovely.  Spitting on me already?  I’m glad you feel that comfortable.”  He took her hand away from his jacket and kissed it.  He didn’t let it go, and he led her up the steps to the restaurant
door.  “Would you rather sit out
side?”

It was warm, but there was a strong breeze blowing intermittently.  And the room inside was dimly lit by candles.  Candlelight would be nice.

“Let’s go in.”

They sat at the bar while their table was made ready.  Christine was conscious of how much leg she was showing, sitting up on the high stool.  She knew her dress was on the shorter side of decent, but she had planned on the table covering her modesty. 
Gavan
took a menu from the barman and opened it.  He looked over to Christine with a serious expression. 

“I’m thinking you are a mojito kind of girl?”

She laughed.  “I like mojitos.  What makes you say that though?”

“Well, you’re too sophisticated for something like a cosmopolitan, or a martini.”  He stood down from the stool to remove his jacket.  The maitre d’ appeared out of nowhere and took it from him with a nod.  “And nothing so vulgar as a Sloe Screw, or Sex on the Beach.” 

Christine shivered involuntarily. 

“A mojito is fresh, but it’s not a fad,” he went on.  “It’s strong, but it’s sweet.  And it takes a bit of work.  A bit of effort.  Sugar syrup, crushing ice, all that mint to wash.” 

They both laughed.  The barman stood before them with a questioning look at
Gavan
. 

“Two mojitos please,” Christine smiled at him. 

Gavan
raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, so you think you know me now, do you?”  he asked.

“Well, I wasn’t going to make him go to all that effort just for one drink.”  Christine clasped her hands on her lap in an effort to cover some exposed thigh.  Their knees were almost touching as they sat at the increasingly busy bar.  He reached out and took her right hand in his.  It was very deliberate, and it meant she had to lean forward slightly.  She rested her left arm on the counter so as not to fall off into his lap.  He just sat there, looking at her, holding her hand.  He didn’t seem to be embarrassed but she couldn’t help feeling so.  The fact was they had spent the night together.  Less than a week ago.  On their first date.  It felt like the proverbial elephant, creating an awkwardness that they had to stumble over.  But
Gavan
seemed to be very aware that they had been so intimate so fast, and he didn’t seem to find it in the least bit awkward.  He seemed like someone who wanted to take up where they had left off.  The thought suddenly crossed Christine’s mind that this could be all about getting her back to her place again.  A re-run of Saturday.  She’d allowed it before, he could safely assume she would again.  She sat up straight on her stool, pulling her hand away, just as the barman placed two bar-mats down for them.  She wasn’t sure if
Gavan
had noticed the flicker of doubt in her eye, but she avoided looking at him, and concentrated on the not-unremarkable mojitos which had been placed before them.

“Wow,” she lifted her glass to him, and he reciprocated. 

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers.” 

“So,” she wanted to get back to where they had been.  “If I am a mojito, what is she?”  She tilted her head slightly towards a tall, stylish lady in her fifties standing behind
Gavan
.  She had her long fingers clasped around the stem of a
white wine
glass, the beads of condensation threatening her painted nails. 
Gavan
feigned a need to look towards the front door, glancing over at the lady as he did so.

“I’d guess a
Pouilly
-
Fumé
.”  He said quietly.  “Expensive and showy.  But actually
as
common as muck.”

Christine giggled into her straw.  “And her husband?”

This time
Gavan
turned in his seat to face the bar.  He cast his eyes to his right at a balding man who had one hand on the lady’s waist,
the other tipping a bottle of
sparkling mineral water into a tumbler of ice. 

“That’s easy.” 
Gavan
removed the straw from his own glass and took a mouthful.  “If he’s
an
Irish
man in his fifties
, and he's drinking sparkling water, he's an alcoholic.”

They both collapsed into guilty sniggering.  Christine noticed the couple looking at them, but they were saved by the maitre d’ who informed them that their table was ready.  He asked if they would prefer to finish their drinks at the bar, but they simultaneously shook their heads, and hopped down from their stools to escape.  A waitress appeared with a tray.  She took their drinks from them, following them to a table in the main dining room.

The restaurant had high ceilings with tall windows, and the many candelabras cast shadowy light across the walls.  The animated chatter of larger parties mingled with the intimate tones of couples' conversation.  As they sat, the waitress introduced herself, told them the specials, and left them alone with the menus and their drinks.  Christine could feel her heart in her chest.  She needed to calm herself down a little.  She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.  She just wanted to enjoy the evening.  She stopped a passing server and asked him for some water. 

“You okay?” 
Gavan
looked at her, concerned.

“Yeah.  Just want to pace myself, you know?”  She smiled at him.  He reached out across the table for her hand.  Again. 

“Look Christine.  I just wanted to say something.  Before it’s later, and you think I’m saying it for a reason.  My parents are flying in tomorrow.  Early.  From Frankfurt.  They’ve been away on a trip to South Africa.  Anyway, they’re coming straight to me at, like eight-thirty
AM
or something like that.  They left their car at my place while they were away.  They’ll drive back down to Wexford then later tomorrow.  My point is,” he took a breath.  He looked uncomfortable.  “I have to be there.  At my place.  Alone, obviously.  So, so I’ll be going home later.”  He looked down into his menu.  “I don’t want you to think I was assuming I could have stayed with you of course, but I just didn’t want you to think that I didn’t want to stay with you.”  He looked up at her again.  “Because, of course, I do.” 

Christine thought her heart might explode.  She took a drink of the water that had been left discreetly on the table. 

“Last weekend was the best weekend,” he paused, “possibly of my life.  Anyway,” he sat back as the waitress arrived over with a pad and a pen and a questioning smile, “I just wanted to say it now.  Before you thought I was trying to… anyway.  I’m going for the steak.” 

The last announcement was directed at the waitress, who turned to Christine expectantly.  Christine didn’t know what she wanted on the menu.  All she knew was that she wanted to lean over and kiss
Gavan
.  And that if she had any friends in air traffic control she would have asked for the early morning flight from Frankfurt to be diverted to Shannon.

Mark checked his watch as he walked through the arrivals hall at Gatwick and towards the escalators to the Gatwic
k Express.
 
He stopped to look up at
the timetable suspended above him.
 
There was a train due in ten
minutes
.
 
Perfect.
 
He pushed the handle of his case down, lifting it past the
metal
bars, and made his descent through the thickening air to the platforms
below
.
 
Five minutes later he was sitting in the air-conditioned first class carriage with the newspaper and a coffee in front of him.
 
He had so much going on in his head, he didn't know how to begin to process it.
 
He had hoped to spend the flight working through his strategy for
his meeting with Marcus Wells.  The London office
sometimes
had a superiority complex when it came to the Irish branch of the business, and Mark would have to tread carefully.  He had no intention of being bullied by his English colleagues
.  It was not going to be an easy afternoon.