Love Me Or Leave Me (16 page)

Not that there was huge money in any of it, but cash-wise at least, Lucy was somehow managing to keep her head above water. And she needed to earn, badly. Because of what had happened, she’d seen her entire world crumble right before her eyes and was frankly prepared to get a job stacking the shelves in Tesco rather than ever have to live through that humiliation again. Ever.

‘Now you just hear me out, babes,’ Bianca was still insisting, as they whizzed down the Stillorgan dual carriageway on their way into town. ‘And try to keep a businesslike head on you. You’ve got to protect yourself money-wise and this is the weekend for you to do it. It’s only fair and it’s now or never. Remember, you poured all of your own savings into your beautiful home and you got absolutely nothing out of it, only grief and more of it!’

‘Do we have to go over all this again? I swear, my head is actually walloping …’

‘Are you honestly telling me that at his hour of life, the likes of Andrew Lowe doesn’t have all kinds of overseas bank accounts and pension reserves, that you don’t even know about?’

‘But even if he did, you can be sure the banks would have swallowed it up pretty fast, to cover all his debts! Not to mention the fact that Alannah and Josh would have got their paws into it.’

‘Stocks and shares you don’t know about? Some hidden bank account buried away in the Cayman Islands?’

‘That’s a laugh! Besides, I’ve already been through this with my solicitor. She ran a full search on him and I’m telling you, there’s nothing.’

‘Excuse me,’ Bianca said crisply, ‘may I just remind you of something, Lucy Belton? When you first met Andrew, you were this gorgeous, outgoing, confident young thing with the whole town at your feet. And in the space of a few short years, he took you from being that fabulous girl to someone who’s thin, miserable, effectively homeless, living in my spare room and grafting your arse off for every spare bean that comes your way. And what kills me is that none of it is even your fault!’

Lucy slumped back on the passenger seat and looked blankly out the car window as all the Friday evening rush hour traffic slowly inched past them. She was suddenly exhausted now, as the lack of sleep last night caught up with her.

‘Are you even listening to a word I’ve been saying?’ Bianca demanded. ‘You’ve gone very quiet all of a sudden.’

‘Yeah,’ Lucy sighed. ‘It’s just that …’

‘Just what exactly?’

‘Well … I didn’t marry Andrew for money, in spite of what everyone said about me at the time. At least, his first family certainly did. Do you remember how some of the scuzzier tabloids even made me out to be this gold-digger purely out for what she could get? But it was all complete horse shite. In spite of what they all said, I married Andrew because I was in love with him. End of. Absolutely nothing to do with what he had or what he didn’t have.’

‘So?’

‘So after everything he and I went through, why has it suddenly become about nothing but money now?’

*

Soon, far too soon for Lucy’s liking, here they were, pulling up outside the stately looking Georgian townhouse down Hope Street that looked absolutely nothing like a hotel from the outside. Hotels to Lucy meant flashy and gaudy, Vegas style, with valet parking, fountains in the front garden and usually a casino attached.

The kind of place she and Andrew used to stay in all the time, once upon a happier time. But this place was more like a posh lawyer’s office, except one where you slept over till you’d thrashed out a separation deal, with minibars in the rooms and flat screen tellies. Lucy had been here once before; she’d already checked.

It took every last ounce of her resolve to haul herself out of the car, as she gave Bianca a warm hug and told her she’d be sure to stay in touch, every step of the way.

‘Remember, I’m just on the other end of a phone if you need me!’ Bianca yelled out the car window before tooting the horn and driving off.

Bracing herself, Lucy forced herself up the stone steps to the front door, wheelie bag clattering after her and rang the bell. And then, just on cue, a car she recognized all too well pulled up outside.

A Volkswagen Beetle, one of the Celtic Tiger-y ones with a soft top. The roof was down and she almost froze on the step when she clocked that Andrew was in the passenger seat with Alannah driving. The girl had sunglasses on, with her hair tied back in a Hermès scarf and a silk floral top Lucy instantly recognized as Stella McCartney.

Jesus, a Hermès silk scarf? Stella McCartney? After everything Alannah had put them through, she was still driving around in a flashy convertible, wearing designer gear that Lucy knew for a fact you could only buy in Brown Thomas for a minimum of seven hundred euro? (She could price it to the nearest penny; but then, she’d appeared in their last fashion magazine spread.)

Feck it, feck it, feck it, she thought, frantically buzzing on the door again and again. Would somebody inside ever open the door, quick, before Andrew caught up with her?

But she was a heartbeat too late. In a blink, Andrew was out of the car and standing right in front of her, first time she’d locked eyes with him in months.

A throbbing moment, where all Lucy could do was stare at him. He’d lost weight, she thought. And in that short space of time, he’d gone from slightly greying round the temples, to almost completely silver-haired. He was always so handsome, tanned and distinguished looking, yet now he was pale and gaunt, a shadow of his old self.

‘Hello Lucy,’ was all he said, dark eyes focused on her and her alone. Then with a hurt and puzzled look, he added, ‘Can you believe that we’re really here? That we’re actually doing this?’

The words caught in the back of Lucy’s throat and she tried hard to think of something to say in reply, but instead all she could do was stare back at him like a mute eejit.

Just then, Alannah tripped up the steps after them, pointedly ignoring Lucy and handing Andrew a small weekend bag.

‘You left this behind you in the car, Dad.’

‘Hi Alannah,’ Lucy managed to say, making a flash decision to try and be the bigger person here. Alannah turned to face her and for a split second, the two women locked eyes.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be standing here in the first place,
Lucy thought furiously, a hot flush of anger suddenly flooding through her.

But you’re the one who’s about to be divorced,
Alannah glared icily back.
Which means one thing and one thing only.

I win.

*

Finally, finally, finally, the door was answered. Well, it probably only took a bare moment in real time, but to Lucy it felt like an eternity. It was the General Manager herself, a lovely, bright girl called Chloe who she’d met just once before, when she’d first come here to see whether she was a suitable candidate for what the hotel had to offer.

Lucy had liked her instantly.

‘Miss Belton and Mr Lowe, come in, you’re so welcome,’ Chloe smiled, and if she was surprised at them arriving together, her blank, professional face betrayed absolutely nothing. ‘Let me have your luggage taken up to your rooms for you. And just before we get you checked in, may I offer you a glass of champagne at the bar?’

‘Another time perhaps,’ Andrew said politely, though more to Chloe than Lucy. ‘And please forgive me, but I’m afraid I’ve got some emails I need to attend to urgently up in my room.’

Phew, Lucy thought, instantly perking up a bit. A drink was just what she needed right now and she’d relax and enjoy it all the more knowing Andrew wouldn’t be around. In fact, she wasn’t even sure how she’d get through the evening ahead without one.

Two minutes later, she was hopping up onto a barstool and gratefully accepting the champagne flute that an incredibly good-looking barman instantly poured out for her, with a wink and a warm smile.

Cheers
, she said to herself, talking the fist delicious sip.
Here’s to me. God knows what’s ahead of me this weekend, but as long as there’s a bar to hand, I’ll get by.

By the time she’d knocked back her first glass, she suddenly started to feel a whole lot better. The crippling embarrassment of this morning was fast fading into a dim, fuzzy memory.

But then mortification was a bit like a hangover, Lucy always found. The effects usually wore off as soon as you started drinking again.

Chapter Eleven

Jo.

Jo had been allocated a room plenty of losers would probably have given their eye teeth to stay in, but not her. Fortunately, she knew exactly what to do about it. Which was what she always did whenever room allocation wasn’t up to her usual standards. In one expert, practised move, she flipped open her MacBook Air, logged straight into her browsing history and clicked on the webpage she was looking for. And then efficiently began to type.

Ferndale Hotel, Fitzwilliam Square, Dublin.

Reviewed by WellTravelledBusinesswoman_777

See my other TripAdvisor reviews.

It was with high hopes that I booked into the Ferndale group’s latest addition to its firmament of stars earlier this evening. As a frequent traveller and indeed a member of the Leading Hotels of the World group, I’ve stayed in many other Ferndale hotels and can particularly recommend their Paris base; an oasis of calm in a bustling city, with five-star silver service and impeccable attention to detail throughout.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for its newest sister hotel here in Dublin. Firstly, like most well travelled members of the business community, when I check into a five-star hotel, it’s with certain expectations. When I request a south facing room on a high floor, away from the elevator, I expect to be allocated one. Similarly, when I go to the bother and trouble of pre-requesting a pillow menu, I expect it to be supplied. And thirdly, the welcome fruit basket that was placed in my room, was thoughtlessly placed right in direct sunshine, with the result that two mangoes and one pear have now turned completely brown. (See attached photos.)

I have taken all of these issues up with management, and have yet to receive a satisfactory response.

A few moments later Jo looked sharply up as a gentle knocking on her bedroom door interrupted her. Instinctively she snapped her laptop shut and went to open it. It was the Head of Housekeeping, with two chambermaids directly behind her, one laden down with a selection of pillows, the other carrying a fresh fruit basket so huge, it almost dwarfed her.

‘Apologies for disturbing you, Miss Hargreaves,’ Jo was told. ‘But we were told to bring these to your room right away. Also, just to say that you had requested a room on a high floor, and this is the highest there is. Sadly, though, the only south facing room available here is the laundry room, so we do hope this is alright for you. And the new fresh fruit basket is compliments of our General Manager Chloe Townsend, who hopes you’ll very much enjoy your stay with us.’

Temporarily silenced, Jo managed to mouth a thank you as the ladies came into her room and started their fussing around. Then, for no other reason than to get out of their way, she went into the en-suite bathroom and shut the door firmly behind her.

Why are you doing this? Why are you acting like such a complete bitch?
she found herself asking her reflection, just like she did every single day, it seemed.
Look at yourself! Ever since you arrived, you’ve doing nothing but take it out on staff who are only doing their best. This is not you! This witch queen from hell surely can’t be you!

Should she go back out there and maybe apologize, explain? No, way too mortifying by far. Besides, where to even begin? So instead she settled for taking a good, long look at herself in the mirror before venturing outside again, tail firmly between her legs this time.

Reflection = not good news. Hollow, dark circles under her eyes? Check. Pale, saggy skin that plastering over with make-up somehow only made look even worse? Check. Lank, dark hair with a lovely crop of fresh grey roots coming up through it? Check.

Well, Jo shrugged, not that I’m particularly bothered what I look like. When have I time to get to a hairdressers these days? Besides, who in the name of arse would even be looking at her this weekend, only Dave? And he’d long ago forfeited the right to see her looking her best, that was for certain.

And then her eye fell on the neat cosmetic bag she’d put beside the double sinks earlier. Shit. Her pills. She’d almost forgotten. Two of the attractively named Gonal-F, one Follistim and all rounded off by the 200gms dose of Merional. Which by the way, was a state-of-the-art brand new wonder drug that her doctor swore was miraculous. Not that Jo had seen much evidence of that to date, but however. She lived in hope.

Over the last two years, she’d learned to.

When she went back out into her room, the chambermaids were just finishing up as the Head of Housekeeping gave her a big, bright smile and apologized once again for the mix-up over her pillow selection, pressing her to enjoy the fruit basket, ‘with our compliments. And if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please call me directly and I’ll attend to it personally.’

‘Thank you,’ Jo said, forcing herself to be polite and behave. She even generously over-tipped too, just because it felt right, then closed the door behind them as they finally left her in peace.

So what if she couldn’t vent her anger on TripAdvisor or on innocent staff any more, the bitch troll that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside her seemed to scream. There’d be plenty more for her to lash out on later.

Just wait until she was locked into the same room as Dave.

*

Dave, as it happened, was late. Nothing unusual there, Jo thought, Dave was always bloody late. In fact the man lived his whole life in a perpetual state of sending texts that read, ‘
running a bit behind, be there in 10 mins … sorry!’
She’d expected this. Been fully prepped for it, even.