Love Me Or Leave Me (28 page)

I think row three broke out by the time we got to the far side of the M50 and you lost all signal on your phone. Be patient, I kept telling you from behind the wheel, do you remember? I got the smile back on your face by painting you this bucolic picture of the two of us sitting in quiet country pubs, drinking hot port and dining out on organic local produce and fish freshly brought in off a trawler only that morning.

But it wasn’t to be. You will perhaps recall things decelerating even further when we actually arrived at the cottage. ‘Bijou and artisan,’ was how the letting agent had described it. ‘A perfect romantic bolthole,’ he’d told me.

Lying fecker. No sooner had we crossed the threshold when I saw that dark, troubled look crossing your face and I instantly knew I’d backed a loser. ‘Bijou and artisan’ turned out to be estate agent-speak for ‘filthy and freezing’. And ‘romantic bolthole’ turned out to mean, ‘in the middle of a deserted ghost estate of long abandoned holiday cottages in even worse nick than this one, with the nearest Centra a good five mile drive away.’

Stout heart that you are though, you put a brave face on it and claimed it was perfect, even though you’ve got a slight ‘tell’ when you lie, as you’re unable to make direct eye contact. But how long did you last before eventually cracking? My darling, I could almost have timed you. I’m certain it was after we drove for miles trying to find a gastropub where we’d visualized having that cosy, romantic dinner together. However, the only ‘gastropub’ we could find turned out to be a spit-on-the-floor old man bar, pitch dark, with diddly-aye bodhran music in the background, with a choice of either Tayto cheese and onion crisps or else smoky bacon for dinner. The look of the owner’s face when you politely inquired about his à la carte menu is to this day, still etched in the ‘all-time great comic moments’ quadrant of my brain.

Do you remember what happened next? You snapped, abandoned me in the bar, took off in the car and were gone for so long, I honestly thought you’d hightailed it back home, with a catalogue of holiday disaster stories to entertain all your colleagues with at work. But come back for me you did, all of about two hours later, wreathed in smiles so wide it gladdened my heart to see.

You’d driven all the way into Wexford town, you told me. And found an internet café for yourself. Not only that, but with a few clicks of a mouse and a quick flash of your credit card, you’d gone and booked us two seats on the following day’s flight to New York JFK. Airmiles upgrades, the whole works.

My darling, how could I possibly argue with that beam on your face? I grandstanded a little about how I’d insist on paying you back next time a gig came in for me and you were sensitive enough to act like that could possibly happen any day soon. And so the following morning, there we both were, ‘turning to the left’ as we boarded our flight from Dublin to NYC, sipping chilled champagne and toasting our lucky escape from the holiday from hell.

I thought I’d use a discount card I had to treat you to a few Broadway shows that I thought you’d like, but it wasn’t to be. Because the minute we checked into that extravagant suite you’d booked at the Waldorf, that was the end of it. Did we even come up for air for the first three days? Not in my memory. Day four and a chambermaid politely knocked on the door, wanting to change the sheets.

‘Are you and the pretty lady enjoying your honeymoon?’ she asked in a Czech accent.

And we laughed. Surely you must remember. And you’ve got to give me at least this much. We were happy then. Weren’t we? I really do think so, my love. You’ve got to be Meryl Streep to carry off fake happy and sadly you, my darling, are no Meryl.

My darling, please forgive me. If I could turn back time, believe me I gladly would.

Yours now, yours always.

Whatever the outcome of the next few days.

SATURDAY

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jo.

Of course, as Jo could have predicted, the whole thing had all turned out to be nothing more than a false alarm. Something to do with that weirdo hippy-dippy looking fella, the guy who’d been streeling around the hotel the evening before in his bare feet, with hair far longer than her own.

Oddball. Didn’t quite fit in. He looked all wrong here, she clearly remembered thinking when she bumped into him earlier in the lift. And it seemed his ex, or rather his ex-to-be was that slip of a thing in the room right next to hers, a kid who looked like she’d barely done her Leaving Cert. Dawn something or other.

She and Jo had nodded brief hellos at each other as they’d met on the upstairs corridor and Jo remembered feeling the hugest pang of sympathy for her. After all, she herself was a grown woman scarily late into her thirties, and having a failed marriage behind you at that hour of life was fairly acceptable, if unfortunate.

Whereas poor Dawn just looked far too young to cope with all this. The girl was mid-twenties at most, at a time of life when she should be all happy and in the first flush of love. There was just something about her being a guest here that seemed wrong on every level.

Anyway, it turned out that Dawn’s ex was the root cause of all this malarkey, though God alone knows what he’d been getting up to. Having some kind of New Age ritual in his room that involved burning things? By the look of him, you certainly wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, maybe now it wasn’t so hard to see why Dawn was divorcing him in the first place.

As Jo stood on the street outside the previous night, slightly apart from where the rest of the guests had congregated, she’d stayed quiet and just listened to the never-ending rumours that were circulating all round her. An electrical fault up in one of the bedrooms, that American woman with the white blonde head of hair had insisted. No, apparently it was nothing more than a chip pan down in the kitchen that had got out of control, someone else swore blind.

And then Hemp Boy himself came out of the hotel, with Chloe hot on his heels, looking even more stressed than Jo herself usually did. Next thing Kirk – if you could indeed believe that there was anyone outside of
Star Trek
who actually went by that name – bowed his head to his fellow guests and in a deep, low voice made a brief apology, saying that it was all his fault, as apparently he’d been smoking up in his room.

Cue a few exasperated groans, filthy looks and a lot of tsk tsking, but most guests seemed fairly understanding and just glad that they could get back to the warmth of their rooms. Even though it was July, it was a cool evening and the vast majority were in flimsy nighties and slippers.

‘Could have happened to any one of us, man,’ Jo distinctly heard Dave telling him, patting him on the back. She could only hope he caught her glaring icily into the back of his head, dark and all as it was. Cheek of him, acting all nice to Kirk when he’d just gone and disrupted a night’s sleep for everyone.

As for Jo herself, the minute the fire brigade had checked the place over and given the all clear, she was the first back up the steps and into the hotel, clattering her wheelie bag alongside her and with a ‘whatever any of you do, don’t dare approach me’ vibe practically pinging off her.

She’d had quite enough drama for one night, tomorrow was another day and scheduled to be a busy one at that. Much to do, much to get through and not one bit of it was going to be easy. Certainly not if Dave’s carry-on to date was anything to go by.

*

First thing on Saturday morning, Jo ordered breakfast to her room. She was just stepping out of the shower, when there was a low, discreet knocking on her door.

Excellent, she thought. Room service and bang on time too. It had been well past 2 a.m. before she’d even got back to her room last night and she’d slept badly after all that unnecessary drama, no thanks to that git with his stray fag end, not to mention all of Dave’s antics earlier in the evening.

But a good strong Americano and some fresh fruit (all the calories she ever allowed herself at this time of day), would surely revive her a bit. These days, she couldn’t even risk taking a sleeping pill, not with the whole other cocktail of medications flooding through her system.

She wrapped a towel round wet hair, slipped into an oversized hotel dressing gown and flung the door wide open.

But it wasn’t room service at all.

Instead there was a very sheepish looking Lucy Belton. At least she might have looked sheepish; it was a bit difficult to tell underneath all of that make-up.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked Jo in a quiet little voice.

‘Bad time, as you can see,’ Jo replied briskly. ‘I’m afraid I’m just about to get dressed.’

‘It’s just … there’s something I really need to say to you.’

‘To be perfectly honest, I think you said quite enough to me last night. Don’t you?’

‘Won’t take two seconds,’ Lucy pleaded, looking at Jo with such desperation in her wide blue eyes, that she found herself wavering. Immaculately made-up eyes too, Jo thought from out of nowhere. God Almighty, how early did this one have to get up in the morning to get herself looking like this? And quite apart from anything else, where did she find the time?

‘Two seconds then,’ she sighed, stepping aside to let Lucy in and folding her arms as much as to say, ‘Just tell me whatever it is and get the hell out ASAP.’

‘I just wanted to tell you how very sorry I am,’ Lucy began tentatively, ‘for being so out of order down in the bar last night.’

‘Fine. You’ve said your piece,’ Jo told her curtly. ‘Can you leave now please? I still have to get dressed and organized, as you can see.’

She sounded rude and knew it, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. When she thought of what Lucy had drunkenly said to her last night, actually talking – in public – about IVF and the strain all the synthetic hormones can have on a woman’s personality … well, to Jo, it had felt the exact same as being slapped across the face.

And now here she was, standing in front of her, all healthy looking and young and probably blooming with fertility. Wait till you see, Lucy would turn out to be one of those women who’d go on to have a whole clatter of effortless pregnancies and for some reason, this made Jo irrationally angry and jealous.

Suddenly she knew she couldn’t listen to another word. She put one hand on the door as though about to show her out, but it seemed Lucy wasn’t finished.

‘Jo … I couldn’t sleep a wink for thinking about all the awful things I said to you –’

‘Well, that certainly makes two of us.’

‘There’s no excuse for how I behaved or for sticking my nose into your private business and believe me, I’m utterly mortified, but …’

‘I’m afraid I really must ask you to leave. Now. Please.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ Lucy sighed dejectedly, as though she sensed she was only wasting her time here. ‘But just before I go –’

Jo didn’t answer her though. Just stood, arms folded, foot tapping impatiently, waiting on her to leave. Another quick rapping on her door and this time it actually was room service with her breakfast order for real.

Good, she thought, a distraction and with any luck, Glamazon here would take this as her cue to go. But as she busied herself with tipping the waiter and telling him where to leave the breakfast tray, still Lucy stood there, like she absolutely wasn’t budging.

Silence as Jo swished about the room saying absolutely nothing, just whipping the towel off the top of her head, turning to face the mirror and starting to roughly dry her hair with it. But the two women’s eyes locked in the mirror and Jo felt a sudden flash of frustration. What was this one still doing here anyway, standing like a deaf mute? She’d already made her apologies, couldn’t she see she was in the way now?

‘Was there anything else?’ Jo asked, a bit rudely, but not really caring. It was after all, no worse than this one deserved after some of the home truths she’d dished up to Jo last night; the brazen neck of her.

‘Well … I guess I probably should leave you in peace,’ Lucy eventually said, shrugging her shoulders and finally making to go.

Jo did absolutely nothing to stop her, just stayed focused on drying off the ends of her hair.

‘But look … can I just say one last thing before I go?’

Christ, what now? Jo thought.

‘Well … there’s at least one aspect of all this that I really do envy you.’

And suddenly out of nowhere Jo wanted to laugh right in her face. The idea that anyone could look at her life from the outside and find something to envy, was beyond a joke at this stage.

‘If you don’t mind, I’m afraid I’d far rather not hear it.’

But Lucy moved a step closer to her, towering over her now and twisting her hands nervously, like she wasn’t quite sure how to put this.

‘The thing is Jo … I know I’m always getting in trouble for sticking my nose into other people’s business, but there’s something I really have to tell you. I think Dave still loves you, you know. So much, far more than you know. You were all he talked about down at the bar last night. He’d do anything for you. He’s only here in the first place because he genuinely thinks this is what you want. There’s a man down there that would do anything to make you happy. And I for one would kill to be in that position, believe you me.’

And suddenly Jo was flushing, with her face raw red.

‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to stop right there –’ she interrupted, but Lucy still wasn’t done.

‘Do you know how rare it is to find someone like that? Who loves you through thick and thin? Because after what I’ve just been through, I can tell you that I certainly don’t have that luxury. So please Jo, take a look at what you’ve got here. Someone who adores you and wants to be with you no matter what! It’s easy to be happily married when everything’s going great. It’s only when the tide goes out that you really see what your relationship is made of.’