Love Me Or Leave Me (18 page)

One good thing though; Kirk would surely hate, with every fibre of his being, having to stay somewhere like this. Particularly, as it was being entirely financed with the last few months’ earnings from their little spelt import business. Which of course meant less money for all his precious goats out in Nairobi. No, Kirk would be far happier if they had to struggle through the misery of this weekend in a yurt, somewhere up a mountain, where you had to go to the loo behind a tree and walk two miles to find the nearest tap that had running water.

Dawn, on the other hand, could get very used to all of this luxury, thanks very much. This was the kind of room where even the cushions had cushions and she could swear the carpet under her bare feet alone was deeper and softer than any bed she’d ever slept in.

I work bloody hard, she figured. So when there’s a few quid there, why not enjoy it? And after all, what was so wrong with flat screen tellies, Jacuzzis and room service anyway? Just because you happened to enjoy padding round in thick, oversized hotel dressing gowns enjoying the complimentary fruit basket didn’t exactly make you public enemy number one, now did it? Though while she was married, she’d certainly felt that way.

Kirk you see, had a major thing about luxury and how guilty it made him feel, while children starved in Africa and twelve-year-olds worked in sweatshops in Bangladesh. And corporate hotels were a particular bugbear of his, on account of the strain they put on the earth’s resources; something to do with all the linen he reckoned they had to launder day in, day out.

But then Kirk had issues with anyone who had the barefaced cheek to wash towels and bed linen every
single
day. In fact, Ferndale Hotels would probably be the kind of place you’d find him outside on a Saturday morning, chained to the railings with a placard that said, ‘Sheets used here made by eight-year-olds in Hizlapara! Boycott this hotel!’

It’ll
kill
him being here, she thought.

Good. Serves him right. After all, he was the one who wanted the quickie divorce in the first place, so let him just bloody well deal with the consequences. And the best of luck to him.

Her phone on the bedside table beeped beside her, for about the twentieth time since she’d checked in. Pointless, she thought listlessly, even bothering to check it. It was either Eva, with one of the regular little cheerleading messages she’d been sending all day, along the lines of, ‘Stay strong sweetie!’ or ‘Just think, in a few short days, you’ll be one step closer to being young, free and single again!’

Or worse, it was her mother to say, ‘Now love, don’t forget everything I told you. Whatever you do, you make sure to give that useless eejit hell!’ All well-intentioned, sound advice. No question, her family had nothing but her best interests at heart. Just the last thing Dawn wanted to hear right now, that’s all.

She glanced at the TV, where Sky News finally told her it was just coming up to 6 p.m. Almost showtime. She gave herself a quick once over in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe one last and final time. Hard call, knowing exactly what to wear to meet the man who shattered your whole life apart and somehow try and look like you were holding it together.

Easy option; her black dress, but then Kirk was an expert in what he called ‘colour deciphering’, and you could bet he’d interpret that as a sign she was still mourning the loss of him. Which wouldn’t do at all. She had a pair of jeans and a bright red top from Zara, but somehow jeans didn’t seem like the right fit in a hotel this snazzy and red seemed far too celebratory. So in the end, she’d put on a simple white sundress with her long red hair flowing loose and a comfy pair of sandals. The good old reliable, ‘couldn’t particularly be arsed’ look.

Just as the 6 p.m. news came on, Dawn steeled herself one last time. Be brave, she thought. Be strong. You’ve come this far. And remember, this is all
his
doing, not yours. You’re not in any way responsible. He’s the one who wants out, so this is the price he’s got to pay.

You can do it, you can do it, you can do it.

Then feeling exactly like she was about to face the guillotine, she forced herself out of the room and slowly made her way downstairs.

*

The bar was already filling up as Dawn stood nervously in the doorway, fidgeting with her hands and glancing all round her to see if there was any sign of him yet. Weird thing, though. If she’d imagined that the mood in the hotel this evening would be all morose and miserable, then she couldn’t have been more mistaken.

Instead, it was filling up nicely in here and waiters were expertly weaving their way in and out of guests, laden down with trays of fancy looking cocktails and champagne. Accents from all corners of Europe and beyond drifted towards Dawn and she found herself doing a double take. Here she was, a total nervous wreck at the thought of having to face Kirk, and yet plenty of other guests seemed not only delighted to see their exes, but were acting like this whole weekend was some sort of celebratory knees up.

Mother of God, they were even drinking champagne! Who in their right minds would possibly want to celebrate being in a place like this? But one quick glance over at the bar told Dawn exactly who was doing most of the laughing and more than her fair share of boozing.

Sitting perched up on a barstool, looking fabulously blonde and glamorous with legs that seemed to go all the way up to her armpits, was Lucy Belton, the famous model. Dawn recognized her instantly, but then it was hard not to. The girl was never out of the papers and was on telly a lot these days too, as a sort of ‘fashion and trend commentator’.

Sure enough, Dawn could remember reading that her marriage was on the rocks around the same time her own had so spectacularly imploded. Then something came back to her about her husband being a much older guy; there’d been a lot of quite bitchy Catherine Zeta Jones/Michael Douglas comments about the two of them when they’d first tied the knot. Some ancient looking businessman, Dawn seemed to vaguely remember from photos of them appearing in the gossip columns. Newly divorced, filthy rich; pretty much the type of fella you’d nearly expect to see with a gorgeous leggy model hanging off his arm.

Surely though, the guy sitting up on a barstool beside Lucy now couldn’t be her ex? He seemed way too young for starters, late thirties at the most. Short-ish and overweight with jet black scruffy hair, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, a bit like one of the hairy bikers. And yet by the intimate way Lucy was leaning into him, deep in lively chat, and judging by how he was hanging on her every word, the pair of them actually looked a bit couple-y. Like they were here for the night. Like they were imminently about to score, in fact.

‘Well! Isn’t this just the best, sweetie?’ Dawn jumped, suddenly hearing an American accent from right behind her. ‘I mean, can you believe it? Come Monday morning, we’ll be all single and ready to mingle again!’

She turned round to see a much older lady, sixty-something, with platinum blonde hair in one of those helmet-y ‘dos’, dressed like she was here for no other purpose than to party, in a glittery black dress with expensive looking jewellery only dripping off her.

‘I’m Jayne Ferguson, by the way,’ platinum-head went on, smiling brightly. ‘And sitting right over in the corner there is my soon-to-be-ex, Larry.’

‘Emm … hi. I’m Dawn Madden,’ she answered, remembering her manners and politely shaking the proffered hand.

‘You look a little lost, honey, you okay?’

You have no idea. I’m standing here, crumbling inside and you have absolutely no idea.

‘Absolutely fine, thanks.’

‘It’s natural to feel a little apprehensive. But hey, that’s what the champers and cocktails are for! To loosen us all up a little. You sure you’re okay, sweetie? Hope you don’t mind my saying, but you’re white as a sheet.’

No, I’m absolutely not okay. I’m about as far from okay as it’s possible to be.

‘Yes, everything’s great. Just lovely.’

‘Well, I gotta say,’ Jayne said cheerily, ‘aren’t you a little young to be getting divorced, honey? You must have been just a baby going down the aisle.’

Dawn managed to force a nervy smile, but said nothing. Just cast her eyes round the bar once more, to see if she could see him anywhere. Tall, long hair, more than likely wearing white like he usually did … in fact, it was hard to miss someone who looked like Kirk in any room. But still no sign.

‘Starter marriage, right?’ Jayne asked her straight out, to stony silence. ‘Happens all the time back in the States, sweetie. You marry young, because you think you know it all, then you both just grow up and grow apart. It’s no one’s fault, sweetheart.’

For the love of God, stop
, Dawn silently willed her
. Please, just stop. You haven’t the first clue what you’re talking about.

‘Now I’m Larry’s second,’ Jayne happily chattered on, ‘though for me, he’s just my starter marriage, even though we’ve been together for over thirty years. Can you believe it? Two kids, both grown up and married themselves. So I guess you could say, I’m officially on the lookout now for my number two! So how about you, honey?’

But Jayne had just lost her audience. Because suddenly, there he was. All six feet of him, sure enough, dressed in a white linen shirt and jeans, standing over by the terrace door that seemed to lead out towards a very pretty garden area. The brown eyes locked into Dawn’s and suddenly it was like the whole room shrank down to just the two of them.

‘Well, hold me back! I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that’s your ex, standing right over by the garden door,’ Jayne kept babbling away. ‘Such a cutie too! Sure you want to get rid of him, sweetheart? Cos I’ll trade you for my Larry anytime you like! Just say the word. I’m in the market for a younger model!’

‘Would you excuse me?’ Dawn half stammered as Kirk slowly wove his way through the crowd over to where she was standing, rooted.

For what seemed like an age, neither of them spoke. He just looked softly down at her, then gently went to take her hand.

‘Come out to the garden, Dawn. We can talk there. There’s so much I want to say to you.’

‘But I’m not here to talk to you,’ she managed to get out coherently, instinctively pulling her hand away, almost like she’d been electrocuted.

‘I’m here to get divorced.’

Chapter Thirteen

Jo.

At exactly the same time, Jo went clattering on her high heels into the bar to try and find that git-face Dave himself. She didn’t even waste time looking in any of the other reception rooms on any other floor for him, so rock certain was she this is where she’d find him.

And lo and behold, there he was. Sitting up on a barstool, nursing a pint of Guinness and – the bold, barefaced cheek of him – actually looking like he was enjoying the party and settled in here for the night.

Incandescent with rage, Jo wove her way through the other guests and strode over. Weird though; Dave must have sensed she was right behind him because her heels made such an almighty clatter on the wooden floor, yet still he made her poke him sharply in the back before he’d even turn around.

In other words, playing games with her, the rude bastard.

‘Excuse me, Dave?’ Jo snapped, trying her best to stay cool. ‘You are aware that you’ve an appointment right NOW and that you’re –’

‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t the old trouble and strife!’ he slurred, grinned broadly, reached out to give her one of his bear hugs, which she immediately swatted away. ‘How are you, dearest wifelet? Come here and give your old man a kiss!’

Oh God, he was drunk. One of the country’s top divorce lawyers was patiently waiting for them both at a conservative cost of about seven hundred and fifty euro an hour, while this moron just sat here drinking? And what’s more, after their meeting, there was to be a formal dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. Yet here was Dave, looking like something a dog had vomited up on the side of the road. He hadn’t even bothered wearing a suit, Jo thought disgustedly. He hadn’t even shaved. Instead, he’d just rolled up here in a t-shirt, shorts and socks, with his head of thick black hair standing on end, as though to feign maximum disinterest and disrespect in all this.

‘Come with me this instant, you idiot!’ Jo hissed at him, only hoping that the barman and other guests behind her couldn’t overhear. ‘You’re keeping one of the country’s top divorce lawyers waiting, you know. While you just sit here drunk off your head, knocking back pints all alone, like the complete saddo you are. Now get off that barstool this minute and move!’

‘Ha! There you’re incorrect, my darling,’ Dave beamed triumphantly back at her. ‘That is, I may have had a few, but I’m most certainly not alone. Ah! Here she is now, the beauteous Ms Belter’s back from powdering her nose … oops, sorry, Belt
on
, I meant to say. Sorry, Lucy, that’s what happens when you read one too many tabloids! Monikers tend to stick.’

Jo heard heels behind her and turned round to see what can only be described as a Glamazon weaving her way towards them. Christ Almighty, this one must easily be six feet tall, Jo thought, with long swishy blonde hair and dressed in the tightest little dress Jo had ever seen this side of an Egyptian mummy. Skyscraper high heels that she didn’t even need, and make-up so heavy, it could only be described as nightclubby. In short, the kind of woman that usually ended up married to Rod Stewart.

‘Hi there,’ Glamazon smiled cheerily, ‘I’m Lucy. S’good to meet you. You must be Jo, right?’

Hang on a sec, I know this one, Jo suddenly remembered. She’s a model and a well-known one too. Never out of the papers and on just about every second TV chat show and magazine ad going. Married too … Jo racked her brains to think, and then it came to her. Of course, Andrew Lowe. He sat on the Board of the Irish Banks Organization at senior level. She’d met him before in fact; Digitech had sponsored one of their awards dos a few years back. In the days when corporations still used to shell out for awards dos, that is.