CLAUDIA CARROLL
Love Me or Leave Me

Copyright

AVON

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014

Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2014

Cover illustration © Shutterstock 2014

Cover design © Emma Rogers 2014

Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007520886

Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007520893

Version: 2014-12-09

Dedication

This book is warmly dedicated to Moira Reilly

With love and thanks, always

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Three Years Ago …

Yesterday …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Two Weeks Later

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Saturday

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Sunday

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Six Months Later

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

THREE YEARS AGO …
Chloe.

‘Shh, shh, shh,’ I can hear my best friend Gemma saying, as she hands me a fistful of Kleenex and purposely avoids hugging me, so as not to crumple the wedding dress. Even though it makes shag-all difference now. My perfect wedding dress too; the one I spent long months trawling just about every bridal shop the length and breadth of the country to find.

‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Just try to tell me what happened.’

Right then, I think, staring dully back at her. You asked for it. So here it is; here’s what I can remember from just minutes ago, before the skin got ripped off the surface of my life, exposing nothing but raw flesh underneath.

The killer is, I’m just a nice, ordinary, normal girl. This isn’t the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to nice, ordinary, normal girls, now is it?

So I took a deep breath and began. Gemma says nothing, just nods silently and waits till I’ve finished.

‘You’ll be okay, you know.’

‘Will I?’

She paused for a beat and I was so grateful to her for at least answering me honestly. But then, Gemma is one of those people who physically gets heartburn when required to lie.

‘I only wish I could say yes.’

* * *

‘And two hearts will beat as one.’

Dawn Madden and Kirk Lennox-Coyningham

Would love you, as one of their dearest friends,

To celebrate their fusion

At Mount Druid,

On the feast of Midsummer, June 21st.

Blessing in the unconsecrated chapel

At two o’clock.

Feasting at The Old Gazebo,

Followed by a tree dedication ceremony on the grounds.

Please don’t RSVP by post, as we believe all paper is wasteful. And know that vegetarians, vegans and all on a gluten-free or lactose intolerance diet will be well catered for.

Organic and unfermented wine freely available.

No gifts please. Donations only, if necessary, to the National Forestry Society.

Accommodation isn’t a problem at Mount Druid. But please let us know if you’d prefer a Mongolian yurt, a shepherd’s hut or a self-catering cottage (running water available here. And eco-loo facilities).

(This invitation has been printed on 100% recycled organic paper and no trees were harmed in its manufacture.)

* * *

Jo and Dave

Cordially invite you

To celebrate their marriage

On fifteenth of February

ST MARY’S CHURCH, 2.45pm sharp, for a prompt 3pm start.

Dress code: strictly black tie, floor length dresses for ladies. Absolutely no cocktail dresses please.

Reception to follow at the Radisson Blu hotel punctually at 7pm.

Full wedding list available at Brown Thomas (no off-list gifting permitted).

Kindly note:

1 Coaches will be on hand at the church to transport guests to the hotel. Please clearly tick the box below if you require transportation.

2 All coaches will leave the church punctually at 4.30pm. This is essential in order to facilitate an on-time arrival at the hotel.

3 Kindly RSVP before December 31st if you have any dietary requirements. Please note, this is essential.

4 Seating plan will be available to view at www.It’sJo’s_Big_Day!.com, from January 1st.

5 No confetti or rice to be thrown at any stage.

6 Guests requiring overnight accommodation, see attached list, which is arranged in order of comfort and budget, from five star standard, downwards.

7 All queries concerning the day should be addressed directly to Jo Hargreaves at Jo_Marketing_Director @digitech.com

Thank you for your prompt reply and looking forward to seeing you on our special day!

* * *

Lucy and Andrew

Are getting married!!!

And they request the pleasure of your company,

At the mother of all parties to celebrate

On New Year’s Eve,

Pichet Restaurant, Trinity St., Dublin.

Sorry, but the actual wedding ceremony will take place privately, on the Twenty Fourth of December, at the Moon Palace Hotel, Cancun, Mexico.

With apologies and please don’t kill us!

No gifts please. We have everything we could possibly need in each other …

YESTERDAY …

Chapter One
London
Chloe.

Last night, the old nightmare came back to haunt me.

I don’t actually know if it’s day or night. All I know is that it’s still my wedding day – or rather the day I was supposed to get married – and I somehow allowed myself to be led out of the bathroom where I’d locked myself, and laid down on top of the fluffy hotel bed. Still in my confection of a wedding dress, crumpled to bits now, like some kind of latter-day Miss Havisham. And they must have given me a sedative the equivalent of a horse tranquillizer, because instead of the heartache that’s to come, all I feel is groggy and sluggish, like I’ve been out cold for hours.

The curtains are drawn and it’s semi-darkness in here, but suddenly I’m aware of someone breathing and a big blurry silhouette perched on the bed beside me. Frank? Could that by some miracle actually be him? For one wonderful, fleeting moment, hope overrides everything my sane mind is trying to tell me. By some miracle, was today just some kind of hallucination and this is actually my wedding night? But I poke round at the slumbering figure a bit and realize that it’s not Frank at all; it’s my best friend Gemma, now out of the gakky bridesmaid’s dress, the one that I practically bullied her into wearing and back into her normal, standard issue jeans with a swingy, summery top.

Still here. Still watching over me, bless her, like the guardian angel that she really is.

‘Did I dream it all?’ I croak over to her.

She shakes her head.

‘’Fraid not, love.’

‘So where is everyone?’

‘Well, a lot of his side just buggered off when … well, when they realized that there wasn’t going to be any … emm, you know. But your parents, plus most of your family and pretty much half of your mates from work all decamped to the Cellar Bar downstairs. More private for everyone, I think they all felt, given … you know.’

‘Yeah,’ I say dully. ‘I work here. Believe me, I know.’

Doubtless still all reeling in astonishment at, well, let’s just say, how the day actually panned out. I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t think this wouldn’t be the talk of the town for years to come. Poor Mum. And after all the bother she had finding shoes to match her dress for it too.

‘So … what happened? I mean, afterwards …’

‘Now that’s absolutely nothing at all for you to worry about, sweetheart,’ Gemma says firmly. ‘That scary wedding planner one, whatshername … dealt with everything beautifully. God, you should have seen her. Worth every penny you paid her just for the massive damage limitation job she did. Your Dad made a short speech at the church and it was all very …’

‘Very what?’

She looks back at me, as though weighing up whether or not I can be trusted with the truth. But then I know she’ll tell me everything. Gemma always has and always will.

‘Well … I want to say dignified, but I do remember him using the phrase, “I’ll kick that bastard’s arse if he ever comes near my daughter again.” Oh and then, he chased Frank all the way downstairs to the underground car park, then threatened him with court action for breach of promise. I nearly thought your Dad would have to be held back by burly security men. I was only thankful he didn’t have a set of golf clubs to hand; he’d have sent Frank straight to an intensive care unit.’

I surprise myself by actually smiling. But then Dad’s a barrister; he’s always threatening people.

‘Did you talk to Frank?’ I manage to get out groggily. Jeez, what did they slip me earlier anyway? A valium sandwich? The same kind of tranquillizers you’d use to anaesthetize a rhinoceros?

‘Briefly. He was loading up suitcases into the boot of his car and told me to tell you he’d call.’

‘What?’ I say, suddenly wide-awake now. ‘You mean that was it? That was all the fecker said? The guy breaks my heart, completely humiliates me in front of the world and its sick dog, and all he can come out with is, “tell her I’ll call”?’

‘Well, in fairness, it was all he could say. I left out the bit where I was physically walloping him with the wire metal bit off my bouquet and only praying it would inflict lasting damage on the cowardly git.’

I squeeze her warmly, silently blessing her loyalty, then slump back against the deep hotel pillows. And now that I’m actually awake, here it comes. What I’ve been postponing all day. I’ve been forcing myself all this time not to relive today’s horrors, but now, like on oncoming car-crash, there’s no avoiding them.

So where did it all go wrong? What in the name of God did I miss? Then, slowly, my stomach starts to twist as it all begins to come back to me. The excruciating rehearsal dinner last night for a start, I suddenly think. That was the start of it. Definitely the first time I got that slightly sick feeling right in the pit of my solar plexus that something was slightly off-centre.

Frank has this slight poker tell, you see. Whenever he’s a bit uncomfortable, he gets twitchy and finds it difficult to make direct eye contact, particularly if you happen to be the one he’s uncomfortable around.

But at the time I thought he was just a bit nervy, nothing more. I even remember looking across the dinner table at him naïvely, lovingly even, more fool me. There’s one hundred and twenty people landing on top of us today, I figured, so who could possibly blame him? Have to admit, I was feeling a bit tetchy myself. I spent useless hours worrying about utter crap, like would the flower arrangements wilt at the reception tables, before everyone got the chance to admire them? And knowing my mates, probably try to nick them later on. But never in my wildest imaginings, did I think this would come to pass.

Suddenly, violent flashbacks start to crowd in on me. I get a pin-sharp memory from this morning of the make-up artist, a lovely girl called Zoe, hysterically screeching, ‘Mother of God, the groom! What the hell is he doing here?! Would you ever just get OUT!’ as Frank gingerly tapped at the door of my hotel room while we were all still getting ready.

‘Frank! You know right well it’s bad luck to see the bride just before the ceremony!’ I can remember my niece Emma screeching over her thin, emaciated shoulder blades, in between lashing on more bronzer than you’d normally see on a Strictly Come Dancing finalist. At that, a sudden, disconnected thought ricochets round my addled brain. Poor Emma. God love the girl, she was so looking forward to being a bridesmaid today. Even joined Weight Watchers especially, then went and lost a whopping eleven pounds. She was the envy of her whole class in school, apparently. And is now so stick-thin, I honestly don’t know whether to feed the kid, or else make soup out of her.

And yet still Frank didn’t budge. Instead, he just stood there, taking us all in with flat-fish eyes. Dead eyes, I’m now thinking.

‘Ehh … sorry to interrupt you all, but by any chance Chloe, would you have a minute?’ he said directly to me, and just in case I’d missed last night’s subtle clues, there it was yet again for all to see. That telltale twitching.

‘Oh, isn’t that sooo romantic,’ I can clearly remember Mum having to practically shout at the young one who was blow drying her hair, raising her voice so she could be heard above the blast of the hairdryer. ‘Bet Frank wants to give her a lovely wedding present before the ceremony. Bit of jewellery, probably, he’s a good lad like that. Wait till you see, our Chloe has him well trained!’

I can remember being a bit taken aback when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere like that, but nothing more. Some last minute problem with buttonholes or seating arrangements, was my ridiculous guess. Because how could I have possibly foreseen what was to come?

A sudden wave of nausea sweeps through me as the whole thing hits me square in the face again, its impact getting more and more painful each fresh time. I’m sweating now, cold and clammy, shivering and shaking weakly, wondering when my life will finally stop spinning out of control.

‘Chloe?’ says Gemma softly through the gloom of the hotel room. ‘I’m right here if you want to talk about it.’

‘Do you want to know what Frank’s last words to me were?’ I eventually manage to croak back at her.

‘Tell me.’

‘He said, “I’d better go now. My left buttock is getting numb from sitting on this tiled floor.”’

‘Well, my oh my, what a diehard romantic he is.’ And even through the darkness, I can sense her rolling her eyes up to heaven. ‘Seriously Chloe, you couldn’t have married Frank,’ she goes on, hauling herself up on one elbow now and looking down at me. ‘I mean, come on, all the signs were there … I did try to warn you …’

‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, staring up at the ceiling, ‘but I can’t do this right now. Please bear in mind this is supposed to be my wedding night.’

Gemma looks steadily down at me.

‘Any point in my mentioning great romances of the past that have all crashed and burned? Charles and Diana? Liz Taylor and Richard Burton? Jennifer Aniston and Brad?’

I manage a weak shake of my head, then turn away from her, savouring the cool feel of the hotel pillows against my thumping head.

‘For God’s sake, look at you, you’re completely drained,’ she says, eyeing me steadily. ‘Now how about you just go back to sleep, and have a nice little snooze, love? And just wait till you see, everything will be so much better tomorrow. Trust me. I’ll leave you in peace and make sure no one disturbs you.’

She tiptoes out the room, like I’m a convalescent recovering from major heart surgery who can’t even handle the stimulation of a door being closed gently … and finally I’m alone again.

With my mind racing.

What to do? Go back to sleep, then get up tomorrow and somehow try to piece my whole life back together again? Go back into work and face everyone? In the very hotel I was supposed to have my wedding reception in? To make matters worse, where Frank and I have worked shoulder to shoulder together for the past few years?

Then comes a sudden straw of hope which I wildly clutch at. Maybe I could try to laugh it all off? Side-step all the humiliation by pretending it was mutual and that Frank and I are actually good friends?

But even if I had the energy, I know deep down that it just can’t be done. Because how am I supposed to come back here to work and just act like nothing happened? How could I look across a function room at him and smile, like he hadn’t just ripped my entrails out and mashed them up against a wall? How can I just pick up the threads of my old life and somehow struggle on? Even in my semi-drugged state, I know I can’t do it.

Not. An. Option.

And then suddenly, from out of nowhere, an idea.

You don’t have to, a tiny voice inside me prompts. You don’t have to face any of them, not if you don’t want to. Who says you even have to? You can just pack up and go. Start a new life, start over. Start right now.

Suddenly I’m sitting bolt upright, heart walloping cartoon-like in my chest, as I really start to give it serious thought.

London, I could go to London, couldn’t I? Not too far from Dublin that my family would think I’ve completely lost the plot and yet distant enough for me to get some perspective. I even have an old pal there who couldn’t make it over for the wedding, maybe she’d look after me for a bit? We did hotel management together in college, so who knows? She might even know of a few job opportunities I could go for.

For the first time all day, I feel a surge of fresh energy coming over me. Just the thoughts of a new life in a whole new city, where I wouldn’t forevermore be branded as the girl who got dumped on her wedding day, and suddenly I’m on my feet and already unhooking the back of my wedding dress. I’ve already got loads of luggage in packed suitcases here, full of clothes I needed for the honeymoon. Admittedly, most of it is fancy-schmancy underwear, but I know at least there’s a pair of jeans and a warm jumper in there somewhere.

Ten minutes later and I’m out the door, pulling a small wheelie bag after me, tiptoeing down the deserted corridor like some kind of fugitive from justice. I know all my family and pals are still downstairs in the hotel’s Cellar Bar, which is in the basement, so with any luck, chances of my running into any of them are slim.

I check my phone and am astonished to see it’s actually still early; just coming up to six in the evening. And I know there’s always late evening flights to London, so with all going well and if I can grab a last minute seat, I might just make it.

Then a sudden dilemma. How do I get out of here unseen by the rest of the staff, by my colleagues, maybe even my boss? If I’m spotted, they’ll just drag me back, tell me I’m not acting rationally and possibly call a psychiatrist to give me the once over. And if I use the staff entrance like I always do, there’s no way on earth I won’t be spotted.

Main door then. No choice. Just like any other guest. Best shot all round. I take the precaution of using the stairs in case I bump into anyone I know in the lift who’ll physically try to haul me back, but thankfully, my luck holds; I’ve the whole stairwell to myself. I make it all the way downstairs and apart from distant voices wafting up from the Cellar Bar, I don’t start running into any other guests until I make it to the busy, packed foyer.

Please, please, please, I find myself praying to a God I barely believe in, don’t let anyone I know see me …

And for the first time throughout possibly the shittiest day known to man, the heavens actually send me a break. The Merrion Hotel is a real weekend hotspot, so the drawing rooms by reception are packed with the fake tan brigade out in stiletto-heeled force and a clutch of hunky looking men wafting around them. Heart palpitating, I spot two lounge staff that work for me, but thank you God, they’re so busy weaving in and out of the throng that they don’t seem to even notice me.

Chest hammering cartoon-like, I weave my way through, slip out the main door completely unnoticed and in the blink of an eye I’ve escaped outside, clattering my wheelie bag behind me.

Mercifully, the air outside the hotel is cool and I allow myself a few deep, comforting gulps of it, feeling exactly like I’ve just escaped from Alcatraz. I make a silent vow to call Mum and Dad as soon as I’m safely booked onto a flight, because let’s face it, last thing I need after the day I’ve had are any of my family going to the cops and filing me as a missing persons case.

Mind’s made up and this girl is not for turning.

The Merrion Hotel is just round the corner from Stephen’s Green, which I race towards as fast as humanly possible, all the while scanning right, left and centre for a cab.

And then, a miracle. Just at the junction of Kildare Street and the Green, with immaculate timing, a taxi turns the corner. I instantly let out an almighty yell at the driver and am just about to shove my way through the crowd to get to him, when a voice from behind suddenly stops me dead in my tracks.

‘Any spare change for a hostel, love?’

No, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please don’t let it be someone I know, come to haul me back … not now! Not when I’ve got this far! But even through the befuddled haze clouding me, a tiny part of my logical brain says … hang on just a sec. Your wedding guests are hardly likely to be out on the streets looking for change for a hostel, now are they?

‘I don’t drink or do drugs, love, I’m only looking for a bit of spare change.’

I turn sharply round to see a homeless guy just at my feet, huddled under a sleeping bag and shivering, even though it’s a warm, balmy evening.

‘Even just a few coins would help,’ he adds, eyeing up my handbag.

Instinctively, I open the bag to fumble round the bottom of my purse for a few coins … and that’s when my eye falls on it.

My engagement ring. The one that Frank flew me especially to New York to buy, just so we could always say it came from Tiffany’s. I take a good look down at it. Three tiny neat little diamonds. And much as I loved it, I know I can never look at it again as long as I live.

In an instant, I whip it off my finger and without a second thought, hand it over to the homeless guy.

Will we both be okay, do you think? I wordlessly ask him as our hands momentarily lock.

I don’t know, he seems to say, looking lifelessly back up at me.

Two minutes later and I’m in the back of the taxi, speeding out towards the airport. And for the first time in my entire life, I don’t have a single clue what tomorrow may bring.

Chapter Two
London, the present.

‘Miss Townsend? Miss Chloe Townsend?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I smile brightly back. But then I’m a firm believer that when nervous, just look and act confident and effervescent on the outside, and sooner or later, the rest of the world will eventually believe the lie.

‘Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels,’ he nods back, giving me a firm, businesslike handshake. Strong, confident grip.

‘Good to meet you and thanks so much for coming along today, especially at short notice. Here, grab a seat.’

I do as he says, but then Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels is someone you just automatically do what you’re told around. Even guests who’ve paid handsomely for the privilege, I’d hazard a guess.

‘Okay if I call you Chloe? Sorry, but as you probably know, I’m not so big on formality.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

Not so big on formality? I think. Ha! Rob McFayden is famous for coming to work in jeans and trainers; almost like he was in such a rush to get there, he ended up sprinting. Rumour has it he’s frequently acted as impromptu doorman/receptionist and even barman on the rare occasions when he feels things aren’t being done snappily enough in his hotel chain. Received myth is that, at a wedding in his Parisian hotel, he once jumped in and acted as a sous-chef for the night, on account of they were one man short in the kitchen.

Yup, an unpredictable man, by all accounts.

‘Great,’ he nods curtly back at me. The mighty Rob McFayden doesn’t even bother to sit behind his desk either, I notice, like would-be-employers usually do in interviews. Instead, he just rolls up his sleeves and perches casually on the edge of it, as if he’s already decided this meeting will take no longer than three minutes, so the application of his bum to the seat is just a waste of time.

‘So, I have your CV here, Chloe, and my HR team tell me it’s all looking pretty good. Well,’ he throws in briskly, ‘obviously it’s a glowing CV, otherwise, you’d hardly have got through my door in the first place.’

‘Well, emm … thank you,’ I smile tautly, although I’m not actually certain he meant it as a compliment.

Suddenly, the nervy tension between us is shattered as his phone rings. He whips it out of his pocket, checks the number then rolls his eyes.

‘Sorry, but do you mind if I take this? It’s my Locations Manager in Italy and it’s more than likely an emergency.’ Then with a wry smile, he adds, ‘It inevitably is.’

‘Of course not,’ I smile overly brightly to compensate for sheer antsiness. ‘Please, go right ahead.’

He takes the call, giving me the chance, for the first time, to really get a half-decent look at the guy. A lot younger than I’d have thought, is my initial impression. Early forties at most, salt and pepper slightly greying hair, long, skinny build. Well travelled, lean, all angles. One of those ectomorph body types you’d almost automatically take a dislike to, on account of they can probably eat all they like and never gain a single gram. Well, either that, or the man lives off fags.

Then with a quick, businesslike, ‘well, let’s set up a meeting with the architect and I’ll see you in Milan on Thursday. We’ll pick this up then,’ he’s off the phone.

‘Apologies for that,’ he says, though not looking at me, instead totally focused on the CV in front of him, eyes darting busily up and down the page. ‘So I see you’ve been working at the Bloomsbury Square Hotel here in London for the past couple of years.’

‘Emm … yes,’ I answer brightly.

‘And you’re Reservations Manager there …’ he says absently, still scrutinizing the CV closely.

‘That’s right!’

‘In other words, Chloe,’ he says, pointedly using my name, ‘you’ve basically spent the last two years looking after high maintenance guests, unhappy that they weren’t allocated a panoramic view and dealing with complaints that the en-suite’s not big enough. That sort of thing, yeah?’

I bristle a bit at this, mainly because my job involves a helluva lot more than just basic housekeeping.

‘Well, of course, that’s some of what my work entails, yes,’ I answer him, ‘but the job isn’t just about troubleshooting staffing issues and rotas, but ironing out countless unforeseen guest-related issues on virtually an hour-by-hour basis.’

And don’t even get me started on the guests that needed to be ‘handled’, in much the same way that you’d handle nitroglycerine, I’m about to tell him. But no such luck; he’s already moved on.

‘But before that, I see you were Functions Manager at the Merrion Hotel over in Dublin,’ he says, impatiently tapping a biro off the CV. ‘Now that’s good, that’s more like it. In fact, that’s the main reason I wanted to meet you personally this morning. Having an in-depth knowledge of the Irish hotel system would be hugely helpful for this particular job. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I thought that might be of interest, alright. Plus as you know, the Merrion is part of the Leading Hotels of the World group, so it was fantastic to gain first-hand experience working in that environment. I loved my time working there,’ I tell him, growing more and more confident now I’m talking about what’s essentially my passion. What I know and love best.

‘Go on,’ he says blankly.

‘You see, I saw my job as so much more than just making a function such as a wedding, run smoothly. I took it as my personal mission to see that every single bride’s dream day was utterly magical in every way that we could possibly make it. After all, every bride deserves her perfect day, doesn’t she?’

Good girl, you did it Chloe! You actually managed to get it out. I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief now. Mainly because it took many, many hours of rehearsing that last bit in front of a mirror at home to finally get the wobble out of my voice, but somehow, I think I pulled it off.

‘Well, I wouldn’t know myself, never having actually been a bride,’ says Rob dryly, looking right at me now. ‘But if you’ve brought any back-up with you, I’d love to see it.’

‘Of course,’ I smile, but then I’ve come fully prepped for this. Out of my briefcase, I whip a full list of every wedding, fiftieth birthday party and corporate black-tie shindig that I’ve ever organized and worked on. Back-up photos, the whole works.

‘As you’ll see here,’ I tell Rob, handing it over, ‘there was absolutely nothing I wasn’t prepared to do for any of our guests, no matter what their budget. I’ve arranged for doves to be released at midnight, just as one couple asked; I’ve even organized themed weddings too, from a Caribbean indoor beach theme, to a couple who wanted the hotel dining room transformed into a scene from Hogwarts.’

‘Hogwarts? Seriously?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

‘Believe me, that was the tip of the iceberg,’ I say. ‘When the happy couple asked for a fleet of owls to fly in carrying emails from well-wishers in their beaks, that was when we ran into difficulty.’

‘I can only imagine,’ he says, shaking his head.

‘But if you ask me, I think you can sum up any manager’s mission statement in a single word. WIT.’

‘Which stands for …?’

‘Whatever it takes,’ I say, really feeling in control now. ‘Whatever a guest wants, I’ll personally jump through hoops to ensure we secure it for them. No matter what.’

‘I see,’ Rob nods at me, then goes back to scanning through the file I’ve just presented him with. Now I worked hard on it and am bloody proud of what’s in there, but I have to say, so far he looks completely unreadable and not at all bowled over and impressed as I was hoping he would be.

‘So you’ve worked on weddings, functions, birthdays, I get it,’ he says again, just that bit unenthused. ‘But you see, this particular hotel I’m planning on opening in Dublin will, as you’ll appreciate, appeal to a quite specific niche market. So, you want to tell me exactly why you think you’d be right for the job of General Manager there?’

I smile brightly, but then, boy am I ready for this.

‘Firstly,’ I tell him, taking care to meet the slate grey eyes boring into me now, ‘because you see, I’m from Dublin. I know the city upside down and particularly the area around Hope Street, where the hotel will be situated. I’ve devoted my entire career to working in boutique hotels and have so many ideas I’d love to share with you.’

‘Such as?’ he says, and I could be mistaken, but swear I pick up just the tiniest spark of interest now. So I really go for it.

‘As you say, this will be very much a niche hotel, so let’s really appeal to that niche. As well as all the regular function rooms they’d get at any five-star hotel, let’s give them so much more. We really have scope to go the extra mile here, so let’s do exactly that.’

‘Go on,’ he says, folding his arms and looking interested now.

‘Well, given the emotional intensity of what our guests will be facing, I’d suggest a relaxation room or maybe even a quiet room, for calm reflection. Equally, I’d love to see a games room where more boisterous guests could let off a bit of steam. And the gardens around the Hope Street area are all so quiet and serene, so let’s really make a feature of that. We could possibly have a beautiful meditation area outdoors, as well as a water feature.’

‘A water feature?’

‘The sound of flowing water is really soothing outdoors,’ I tell him confidently.

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘And we could also have some decking and a barbecue area, maybe for a final goodbye lunch, when all business has been conducted and before we send our guests on their way.’

‘Good, good,’ Rob is nodding away at me now and for a brief, shining moment, I think this might just swing things my way. ‘But just for the moment, I’d like to get back to your CV,’ he says, suddenly changing tack and referring back down to it, inspecting it closely.

Shite. Or maybe not.

‘So it seems you worked at the Merrion Hotel for over seven years?’ he asks, scrutinizing the CV forensically.

‘Emm … yes, that’s right.’

‘Ah, but hang on here a second,’ he says, suddenly spotting something that seems to jar with him. ‘According to this, you left the Merrion three years ago, but didn’t start work here in London months afterwards. Now for a CV like yours, that’s quite a lengthy gap. So, I guess my next question is, why?’

‘Well, you see,’ I begin and for the first time, my voice is now starting to sound just that bit smaller than it has up to now. ‘I had come to a point in my career where I felt working abroad would really benefit me on a number of levels.’

But predictably, he’s zoned straight into this and won’t let up.

‘Yeah, but why the long gap? Pretty long time for someone who’d just finished up at the Merrion. Surely if you were planning to work abroad, you’d have locked a new job in place before jumping ship, as it were?’

He’s looking at me unflinchingly now. Slate grey eyes, unblinking; the CV in front of him his sole focus.

‘The reason being,’ I begin nervously, taking a deep breath, and locking eyes with him, then diving into my over-rehearsed answer. ‘It just took me some time to find a post that was the right fit for me. As you can see, I’d gained invaluable experience at the Merrion and was anxious to expand my CV even further. I wanted to cover all managerial aspects of the job and if possible, branch out from a Functions Manager’s role.’

Can’t we just drop this and move on?

‘Yeaaaah, but what you’re saying still doesn’t quite make sense,’ he says, lightly tossing my CV aside, almost like he’s lost interest in it now. ‘You see, I know the Merrion, know it well; I’ve stayed there. Functions Manager in a hotel like that is a terrific gig anyone your age would kill for. Yet you left to go to London, and then took a lower grade job at a significantly reduced salary. Which strikes me as an incredibly odd thing to do, for someone with all your experience. It seems like a backward career move. Particularly for a manager as highly thought of in the industry as you are. And yes, Chloe, before you ask, please know I’ve done my homework on you before you even got this meeting.’

I don’t say anything, just sit there, ramrod tense; bolt upright in my good work suit from Reiss, too-tight shoes and borrowed handbag, stomach clenched tight, frozen.

I probably blink. And all that’s running through my mind on a loop is the one thought. I thought I was doing okay. I actually thought I was handling this. And then one probing question about my past, and I’m suddenly pole-axed.

For the love of God, Rob McFayden, please don’t ask me any more … don’t delve into it … just LEAVE it …

No such bleeding luck though. He’s like a dog with a bone trying to ferret it out of me now.

‘So,’ he persists, ‘maybe you’d like to elaborate a bit? I guess what I want to know is, what exactly happened to you three years ago to make you leave?’

But my mouth’s completely dried up. I lean forward and take a sip of water from the glass in front of me, aware that he’s watching me intently, waiting.

Bum-clenchingly awkward silence now and all I can think is, answer him, you eejit, you want this job, this is your dream job! So just look him in the eye and tell him the truth.

Can’t though. Just not possible. I think back to the searing pain, so sharp that even thinking back to it now, from a safe distance of years, I can still recall every detail on an almost cellular level.

Then I remember those first few dismal weeks in London, staying with an old college pal who I must have driven demented with the depressive state of me. I remember what a bloody struggle it was to get any kind of gig in the hotel industry at all back then, but how I just knew that hard work and lots of it would somehow pull me through. The only antidote that would have any kind of an effect on me.

And so yes, I accepted a lower grade job on a reduced salary and you know what, Rob McFayden? I was more than delighted to. Frankly, I’d have done anything that came my way; scrubbed pots and pans, scoured toilet floors if they’d asked me to. I worked and slaved behind my desk, doing every spare hour of overtime that came my way. I became the best, most devoted Reservations Manager in the Northern hemisphere. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, bank holiday weekends; you name it. I basically volunteered for all the time slots that no one else wanted. I’ve had virtually next to no life here in London, it’s just been a never-ending rota of either working, sleeping or catching up on laundry I allowed to pile up, on account of I was working. Wow, what a whopping big surprise.

And then miraculously, out of the blue and just when I was at my lowest ebb, I was headhunted for this job. My ideal job. The chance to manage my very own hotel, a tiny boutique one that appealed to a small, niche market. A very particular niche market as it happens, one that just happened to suit me down to the ground. And it seemed like everything I wanted all at once. A better job, a salary more in line with what I was used to, the chance to return home, back to Ireland and best of all, the chance to really prove myself. Because if I could make a hotel like this one work, then boy, I’d be ready for anything.

I’d lived with humiliation and pain for long enough now. I missed my family and pals. Enough with the punishment, time to move on. No more of this self-imposed exile, I’d had enough. And yes, I’m sure what happened to me was the talk of the town for a while, but it’s in the past now, so why should I let that stop me pursuing what pretty much is a dream job on a decent salary? I may have been deadened on the inside, but one thing was certain: I was as ready to go back as I ever would be.

I eyeball Rob McFayden, take a deep breath and go for it.

‘I had to leave my old job,’ I tell him, ‘for personal reasons that trust me, you don’t need to know about. Besides, a single phone call to the Merrion Hotel will doubtless fill you in on everything you want to know. But if anyone is qualified to run a hotel where broken-hearted people come to put their lives back together and move on, then believe me, I’m your girl.’

Chapter Three

A divorce hotel. Where you check in married and check out single. And yes, you did read that right. ‘A safe sanctuary to go to when you suddenly found your whole life was in shreds and you were no longer able to see the wood for the trees,’ just like the blurb said.

But it was envisaged to be an awful lot more; this was to be somewhere supportive, non-judgmental, healing even. A place where people who’d long ago ceased to love each other could meet in a calm, stress-free environment with trained professionals on hand to help and offer guidance.

For starters, there’d be a full team of industry professionals on hand to ease the soon-to-be-ex-couple through the process and to make it as fast and efficient as could be. Family lawyers, financial advisors, counsellors, you name it. There’d even be an estate agent on site, just in case jointly held property needed to be valued and subsequently sold. Absolutely everything had been thought of and nothing had been left to chance. This would be a place where two unhappy souls could quickly tie up loose ends and where something that had long been a source of acute pain to both, could gently be eased out of its misery. Kind of like Dignitas, except for the married.

At least, that was the general idea.

Of course I thought I was hearing things when I first stumbled across the whole concept. ‘Stone mad lunatics,’ I’d muttered to myself way back then, when I’d read about the opening of the world’s first divorce hotel over in Amsterdam.

For starters, who in their sane mind would ever want to stay there? Let alone work in the kind of place where not a single guest even wanted to be in the first place? Just wait till you see, this daft idea will end up the laughing stock of the whole industry, I’d thought way back then, doubtless cackling like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz.

But that was then and this is now, and pretty soon I discovered the bittersweet taste of having to eat my own words. Because how wrong was I?

The divorce hotel concept is only about two years old now, virtually still a tiny baby in nappies, in hotelier terms. And yet in that relatively short window of time, it has not only met every single one of its financial targets, but managed to astonish the industry as a whole by actually exceeding them. No mean feat, in the middle of the biggest global economic meltdown since the Wall Street crash had everyone out queuing up outside soup kitchens, circa 1929.

The original divorce hotel which had opened on the outskirts of Amsterdam, was virtually minuscule by industry standards, with a bare twenty-five rooms. And yet occupancy had never once dipped below full since it first began trading. No other word for that in this day and age except un-be-fecking-lievable. So there was nothing for me to do, bar shake my head in astonished admiration, same as everyone else, while wishing like hell I could somehow inveigle myself onto the bandwagon.

So of course, it was only a matter of time before the up and coming Rob McFayden, with his finger ever on the pulse, got in on the act. A rival hotel group had already pitched to unveil a divorce hotel in London, so he began to look a little further afield. And thought, why not open one in a thriving, cosmopolitan city like Dublin? Which, thank you Ryanair, is easy to access, no matter what corner of Europe you happen to be in. A country famous for its hospitality and charm. And more importantly, as Rob told me at my initial interview, with a calculating glint in his eye, where he could negotiate a lease on a building for approximately a third of what he’d probably end up paying in central London.

I read that you can always remember exactly where and when you were whenever a life-changing phone call comes. But in my case I happened to be in Asda, buying loo rolls and a tin of Whiskas for a stray tabby cat that comes in to visit me whenever the mood takes her.

My mobile rang suddenly. Ferndale Hotels. I remember getting instant heart palpitation, shortness of breath, the works.

‘Miss Townsend? Chloe Townsend?’ came a crisp, efficient voice down the phone.

‘Emm … speaking,’ I stammered nervously as an irritating automated machine wailed ‘Unidentified item in the baggage area.’

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Rob McFayden would like to offer you a contract as General Manager and we very much look forward to welcoming you to the Ferndale Hotel team.’

I think they must have heard my whoops of joy all the way to the back of the deli counter. Finally, finally, finally my life was turning around. And given what I’d been through, could there ever have been a job more tailor-made to suit me? Rob McFayden, I knew, was taking a huge chance on giving me the GM’s job and over my dead body was I about to let anyone down. To make a hotel like this work anywhere on the planet would be a dream come true, but to make it work in Dublin, on my home turf meant so much more.

But, as was painstakingly outlined to me during my initial orientation training, there were many hard and fast rules to be observed. Rule one, though, was particularly hard for me to get my head round, seeing as how it was in flagrant contradiction of every other hotel on the face of the planet, where as long as a guest a) had cash enough to pay their bill and b) didn’t look like they were physically going to trash the room and nick all the light fittings, then, as far as management were concerned, everyone was welcome.

But not at a divorce hotel, it seemed. Here, it was like the Alice in Wonderland of standard practice, where received wisdom was turned upside down. Strict protocol here was that only a couple who were on ‘cordial terms’ could be allowed to come and stay in the first place. And how could you possibly hope to do that, if you’d two exes still at the stage of wanting to hurl furniture across the room at each other?

Another hard and fast rule was that all couples had to be interviewed, either separately or together, just so that, as General Manager, I could be certain that this was the right place, at the right time for them. After all, no divorce hotel was to be confused with a marriage guidance counsellor’s office. This procedure was all about neat and final closure, not accusations and recriminations and rows and bitterness and who got the lawnmower/flat screen telly/leather sofa from IKEA.

Rule three was discretion. Utter and total discretion from all staff, at all times, about what went on within the four walls. And of all people, I understood all too well the acute need for fat gobs to be swiftly silenced, when you were going through something so private and acutely painful. Are you kidding me? I could probably teach a course in it by now.

On the plus side though, here was what newly separated couples got for their buck at your standard divorce hotel. No matter where you happened to live in the world and no matter what jurisdiction bound you legally, there’s one ‘truth universally acknowledged’ that you can absolutely put your house on.

For anyone who finds themselves in the position of looking for a divorce, you’ve basically got two options. Either you go to court, have a lengthy, protracted – and doubtless expensive – case, where every single detail of your personal family life would be aired in a public courtroom. With absolutely no dirty linen left unexamined.

Humiliating, mortifying, prohibitively expensive and the end of it all, what would the net result most likely be? By and large, you’d get one third of the couple’s joint assets, he’d have a third and the lawyers ultimately would make off with the final third.

And now suddenly here’s a viable alternative. Given that this is undoubtedly a process both parties will want to get over and done with as quickly as possible, why not check into discreetly luxurious surroundings and get the whole thing sorted out in a single weekend? And with cocktails on the side? After all, there’s nothing to be gained from dragging out the whole process. This way, instead of lawyers carrying off a vast chunk of the couple’s joint assets, everything would be split fifty-fifty, fairly and equitably down the middle.

Best of all, no matter what stage a couple happened to be at in their separation, they could still check into a divorce hotel and at least get the final settlement set in stone. Then all the couple need do would be to bide their time and live their separate lives apart, until such time as they could appear before a judge, hand over their agreement, a gavel was walloped and they were formally granted a decree nisi. Easy as that.

A divorce hotel strove to make something complicated, simple.

Best of all, the premises that Ferndale Hotels had leased for their hotel in Dublin might as well have been purpose built for the job. Elegant and utterly discreet, it was one of those four-storey Georgian redbricks on Hope Street, just off leafy Fitzwilliam Square, surrounded by accountants’ and lawyers’ offices. The hotel’s name wasn’t even written on a canopy over the door, instead there was just a neat brass plaque saying, ‘Ferndale Hotels, Hope Street.’ Subtle and inconspicuous, its message clear. No one need ever know you’re a guest, not unless you want them to.

‘The Hope Street Hotel,’ as it quickly came to be known.

*

So I’m officially based back in Dublin now and oh thank you God, it feels so good to be home! Even if I’ve been so run off my feet that I’ve barely had the chance to spend any quality time with my best mate Gemma or any of the old gang. Somehow just being here, doing a job that’s challenging and yet that I really feel can and will take off, is firing me up and propelling me through each busy day until we formally open for business.

Plus of course, being this overloaded with work means I’ve absolutely zero time to think about the one and only blight on the horizon. The all-too-real possibility that I might just be standing in the vegetable aisle in Marks & Spencer’s with greasy hair and no make-up, turn a corner and then walk slap bang into the whole reason why I hightailed it over to London for as long as I did.

Frank. Or as Gemma refers to him, He Whose Name Shall Forever Remain Unspoken. Now, my spies tell me, promoted to Assistant General Manager at my old stomping ground, the Merrion Hotel, barely a stone’s throw from Hope Street. I imagine bumping into him with such punishing frequency it would scare you. But I stop myself from going any further. After all, this business venture is about helping others through their broken relationships. And not dwelling on my own troubles. At least not now. Not yet.

But he’ll be watching my progress here, I know he will, as will half the industry. So this is it then; my one and only chance not to be the girl who bolted from a perfectly good job because of what I went through. This is my shot at proving not just to Frank, but to all our old colleagues and not least to myself, that I can make this work. That I can make a success of this; that I can make it fly.

‘I think it’s amazing what you’re trying to achieve here,’ Gemma says to me over a hasty lunch break I manage to snatch. ‘But I just have one question for you.’

‘Fire away,’ I say, between mouthfuls of takeout sushi.

‘Don’t get me wrong, the Hope Street Hotel sounds like a great concept and everything,’ she says, shaking her head in puzzlement. ‘But mother of God, given that all of your guests will be going through marriage break-ups …’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, sweetheart … exactly what kind of dramas are you going to end up having to deal with?’

Chapter Four
Dawn.

Still in total shock, but at that numb stage where you can somehow function purely on automatic pilot, Dawn took one final moment to have a last, quick look around the tiny little shoebox of an apartment she and Kirk had been sharing, ever since they’d first been married. A poky flat above an Indian takeaway in town that permanently stank of garlic and onions, no matter how many cans of air freshener she went through.

The tiny part of her brain somehow getting her through the hell she was stuck in, reminded her that of late, the place been starting to drive her insane anyway. The constant stench of grease from the takeaway mixed with prawns well past their use-by date. And how noisy it got from about midnight onwards, when drunk revellers would nip in for a cheap vindaloo, then start calling each other wankers at the top of their voices on the street outside.

For as long as she and Kirk had lived here, they’d always planned to move on, just as soon as they could properly afford to, but of late, all the chats they used to have about their ideal pad had fizzled out. Almost as though each of them silently recognized it was pointless, because this day would inevitably come.

Just not like this, Dawn thought suddenly, shaking from head to foot, as the enormity of what she was about to do really hit home. Not this way. They’d been happy here. In many ways, they were still happy. Kirk was her best friend, her right hand, her go-to person. This would devastate him, but then he’d devastated her first, and like a child that knew no other way of expressing hurt, all she could do was try and inflict the same degree of pain right back instead.

So are you really prepared to do this? she asked herself for about the thousandth time that miserable day. Just run away from the problem and not at least try to work through it?

Yes was the answer. Because what he’d done had completely broken them forever. How could she possibly stay in this now? Just what kind of a doormat would that make her?

Suddenly overcome by a crashing wave of exhaustion, Dawn slumped down onto their tiny sofa bed and tried her best to sit still for a moment, at least until her head stopped spinning.

For a split second, her eye momentarily fell on a wedding photo on top of the bookshelf and she found herself dithering for a minute, wondering what she should do with it. Leave it where it was to remind Kirk that he had actually made a solemn vow that day? After all, he was the one who was forever saying that, ‘a vow was a promissory note against your soul.’ That that’s how much getting married had meant to him way back then. Okay, so most of the time he was stoned off his head when he did come out with it, but still, the sentiment was there. Or would she just angrily fling it into the bin, so he could gauge for himself exactly how she felt about what had just happened?

She took a last second to really look at the photo. Her dream wedding. Or ‘that hippy-dippy, tree-hugging fiasco’ as her mother liked to refer to it. Hard to believe that it had been taken just a few short years ago. Has it really been that long, she wondered, her heart suddenly twisting in her ribcage as she thought back to that young, hopeful girl, so in love with this guy that she’d have happily walked through flames for him.

Yet there she was in the photo, in that cheap little maxi dress from Penny’s, long bedraggled hair down to her bum, arms locked tight around Kirk, looking adoringly into his gentle, brown eyes. With their whole lives in front of them, rolling out like a red carpet.

Feck’s sake, sure we’re just a pair of kids in this photo, she thought, sudden anger flooding through her. And the problem now is we’re all grown up, just in two very different directions.

Dawn even looked a bit different these days. While Kirk still looked exactly the same today as he had in the wedding photo, the past few years had changed her dramatically. Well, she’d had to evolve a bit, didn’t she? After all, there was only so much tree hugging and chakra realigning a person could do, without realizing that was hardly going to pay the rent and keep them both in mobile phone subscriptions and Sky Plus.

Besides, Dawn had by now been promoted to manager of Earth’s Garden, the health food store she worked in and was pulling in a not-too-shabby wage these days. So of course, she needed to look the part. Plus she’d recently discovered a tiny niche in the market for spelt muesli, to great encouragement from Kirk, who’d help out with the business whenever he wasn’t teaching his yoga class. And now she was importing it in herself and selling it through the store for a nifty return.

NLE Enterprises, the two of them jokingly called her tiny, fledgling company. Nice Little Earner. Kirk had even talked her into donating a hefty percentage of their profits towards a goat farm outside Nairobi. Mind you, left to Dawn, she’d have been far happier using the cash to move to a better flat, but then Kirk did have a point. After all, one goat farm in Africa could keep a whole village going. And it was the right thing to do, the ethical thing.

Wasn’t it?

Anyway, these days Dawn acted and dressed like what she’d grown into, an up-and-coming owner of a small but steadily growing business. Out with all the hippy-dippy long, flowing clobber he used to love on her and in with neat work trousers and crisp white shirts from Zara.

In the early days, Kirk used to laugh at her and tell her she looked a bit like she was going out to repossess a house, but she’d noticed even that gentle teasing had completely ground to a halt of late. Like he barely even noticed her now. Yet another sign something was up. Just her bad luck, she thought bitterly, that it wasn’t what she’d automatically assumed. The first conclusion any wife in similar circumstances would jump to.

Dawn allowed herself one final glance down at her wedding photo. With almost digital clarity, she could remember how stung she’d been that day at all the nasty, sniping comments streaming incessantly from ‘her side’; her mother and sister Eva, not to mention all her mates from work. The way they kept on griping because nothing about the commitment ceremony had been right for them; all they could do was find fault wherever they looked.

But right at this moment, if she could go back in time, Dawn honestly thought that instead of allowing them all to get to her, instead she’d have berated the lot of them from the bottom of her hot little heart for letting her go through with it in the first place. Jesus, she’d only been twenty-two years of age! She hadn’t the first clue what she was letting herself in for! Instead of moaning about the hemp wine, the lack of a DJ playing Beyoncé and the general crappiness of the sitar music, her mother and sister, not to mention all her pals, should have physically arm-wrestled her to the floor rather than letting her go through with it.

As for her? She must have been out of her mind not to realize this day would eventually dawn. Just not in this way. And not for the love of God, like this.

Peeling herself off the sofa, Dawn began to haul her packed suitcases as far as the door so she’d at least be ready when her taxi arrived. Then a quick, last minute spot check around the place, to make sure she hadn’t left anything important behind. She tried to distract herself with petty, inconsequential stuff, like checking whether she’d remembered to pack shampoo, the charger for her phone and the last of the Hobnobs, just because they were Kirk’s favourites and it would bloody well serve him right.

But whether she liked it or not, shockwaves kept searing through her like some kind of laser. She couldn’t keep it out; it wouldn’t stop intruding.

Of course, she blamed herself for not bloody well copping on sooner. For not guessing the truth, before it had to be spelled out to her. For God’s sake, it had been exactly ten months, three weeks and four days since Kirk had even looked at her as anything other than a flatmate and pal! She could quite literally pin the last time they’d slept together down to a date. Was she really naïve enough to think that the two of them were sailing blissfully towards their silver wedding anniversary?

Even though her brains were like mince right now, that particular date still stuck like a limpet in her addled mind on account of it had been his birthday. Not many people could tell you exactly when they first suspected something was seriously up with their marriage, but she’d been able to sense as far back as then, that something wasn’t right. She could practically smell it.

After all this was Kirk, who’d at one stage been so unbelievably passionate, exulting in her body, barely able to keep his hands off her. He wasn’t even particularly bothered if the two of them happened to be out in public, something he tended to view as little more than a challenge to be overcome and nothing more. (Quite literally. And Dawn just thanked Christ the deer in the Phoenix Park wouldn’t ever talk and left it at that.)

Ten months, three weeks and four days for a man who’d always been so physical and loving and … no other word for it … experimental in bed, she thought sadly. And God knows, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t made an effort. Over her dead body was she just allowing the two of them to slide into this new routine of long bedtime chats, laughs, giggles and then maybe a friendly cuddle before drifting off to sleep. Like some kind of middle-aged ’auld ones who’d slid into not having sex any more and instead just worried about their two point four kids and the variable mortgage.

Not a chance, this gal wasn’t going down without a protracted fight. She’d more than done her bit to try and spice things up between them, hadn’t she? She’d tried her level best to recapture their first heady days and months together, when it was all sex and talking and still more talking and then rolling over for yet another bout of furious, unquenchable lovemaking. Surely no counsellor or therapist could fault her on that score?

Flushing a bit in mortification now, Dawn thought back to what a naïve eejit she must have seemed back then. How she’d forked out on all that highly uncomfortable hooker underwear, then shoehorned herself into it, in the vain hopes that the sight of her kitted out like something from a porno movie might reignite that old spark in Kirk. After all, before they’d ever met, he’d had legions of girlfriends and a tiny part of Dawn always worried that sex-wise, she didn’t quite measure up.

But no, nothing doing. Instead, he’d just look her up and down, smile lazily up at her and ask whether or not those knickers felt like wrapping her nether regions up in dental floss and why wasn’t she howling in agony anyway?

Then of course, Kirk would do what he was starting to excel at lately; turn it all into a joke and pull her in for a cuddle, as the two of them just slid companionably back into their old routine. They’d always been best friends, but whereas back in those incredible early days, they’d been lovers first and best friends second, lately they’d settled into being just each other’s closest pal. And that was where it ended.

Back then though, Dawn had known no better, so she fought and kept on fighting. She winced to think about it now but at the time, sheer desperation drove her to act like she was up for anything. At one point, in a blood rush to the head, she’d even contemplated suggesting a threesome. Last thing she herself would ever have wanted, the whole idea completely repulsed her, but then Kirk used to be up for anything sex-wise, and if this was what it would take to reignite things …

Took her all of about ten seconds to completely scrap the idea. Sorry, but sharing Kirk with some nameless faceless one from the internet or worse still, with someone they knew and knowing Dawn’s luck, would more than likely bump into in the aisle at Tesco’s, was just unthinkable.

But she’d lost count of the number of romantic nights à deux she’d tried to plan in their tiny flat, just for the two of them. Candles dotted around the place, romantic dinner, wine, sure you know yourself. With any luck, that would turn into one of those wonderful nights they used to have back in their early days, when Kirk would gently massage her and things naturally developed on from there.

For the past few months, Dawn had been trying this tactic as often as she could, yet every single time without fail, you could be bloody sure Kirk would try and find some way to weasel out of things going any further than companionable hugs and cuddles.

No, Dawn wasn’t blind and she certainly wasn’t stupid.

What happened was just the final proof she needed.

She was zipping up her wheelie bag and just doing a last, final spot check to make sure she hadn’t left any of her face creams behind in the bathroom, when suddenly her mobile rang.

‘Taxi for Dawn Madden?’ growled a twenty-a-day smoker’s voice down the phone.

‘Be downstairs in two minutes,’ Dawn told him, before hanging up.

Do it quickly, she told herself. Just go now, fast while you still have some ounce of resolve in you.

Trembling weakly, she grabbed hold of the last of her wheelie bags and slammed the door behind her.

And just like that, she thought, my marriage is over.

*

‘Jaysus love, that’s a fair amount of luggage you have,’ said her taxi driver, as he helped Dawn load up the boot of the cab with one stuffed case after another. ‘Taking a trip, are you? Airport, is it?’

‘Emm, no actually,’ Dawn said weakly, praying he wouldn’t try to draw her out any further. No rudeness intended, but she just hadn’t the strength to go into it, not now. She hopped into the back seat and gave him Eva’s address, praying he wouldn’t try to probe her much more.

‘Ahh, I get it, you’re moving flat then, are you?’ the driver said in that gravelly voice, two slitty eyes glancing at her reflection in his rear-view mirror as they sped off into the traffic.

Dawn just about managed a tiny little nod and hoped against hope he’d take the hint that she wasn’t really up for small talk. As it happened though, she was in luck; just a few more monosyllabic answers from her about the general crapness of the weather/direness of the traffic, and thankfully, he seemed to take the hint. Switching the car radio on, he tuned into one of those early afternoon moany phone-in shows, where callers ring in to rant about the general rubbishness of the health service, or else their dole being cut, etc.

Nerves still on edge, Dawn took a deep breath and looked out the window, for the moment at least tuning out the incensed voices bleating over the radio about the price of wheelie bin lifts. And that’s when she saw it.

Suddenly, right beside her, a wedding car pulled up at the traffic lights. A sleek Bentley, with white ribbons fluttering at the front. And there, in the back seat, directly opposite her was a beautiful young bride, with a stunning white veil and what looked like a fabulously expensive dress on underneath. There was an elderly man right beside her, whose face looked flushed with either whiskey or pride, it was hard to tell. Her Dad, Dawn figured with a pang, there to give her away.

For a momentary second as both cars were stopped side-by-side, the bride locked eyes with hers. Ordinarily, Dawn would have waved and smiled and given a thumbs up, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to. Not today. Not after what she’d just come through.

Wish me luck? the bride’s eyes seemed to ask her nervously.

I’m sorry but … please understand – I just can’t, Dawn answered simply, looking right back at her.

The traffic lights changed, the wedding car glided gracefully on and now, Dawn found herself thinking back to another young, hopeful bride on another grey, drizzly day just like this; full of love and happiness and optimism about what lay ahead. Her eyes misted up a bit and suddenly, she found her thoughts drifting.

*

‘I Kirk, take you Dawn, to be my beloved spouse and partner in life, to stand with you always, in times of celebration and in times of sorrow, times of joy and in times of pain, times of sickness and in times of health. I will live with you, love and cherish you, as long as we both shall live.’

Slight ripple of polite applause, which the High Shaman immediately silenced with an authoritative slamming of his ceremonial stick off the rickety wooden floor.

Scary looking git, Dawn thought, from out of nowhere. Where did Kirk find him, anyway? He’d nearly put you in mind of Professor Dumbledore from Hogwarts, right down to the heavy bushy white eyebrows, which from where she was standing, looked exactly like guttering that would overhang a building.

With a jolt, she realized Dumbledore was nodding in her direction that this was her cue. The Big Moment.

Concentrate Dawn, she told herself. You’re about to get married here.

‘And I Dawn,’ she began in a wobbly voice, ‘take you Kirk as my beloved spouse and partner in life, to tenderly care for you and to respect your individuality, to cherish you just as you are and to love you with complete fidelity. Always.’

A few ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from around the blessing area as Kirk beamed happily down at her; that gorgeous, dimply smile that never failed to completely knock the wind out of her.

‘Then Kirk and Dawn,’ the Shaman boomed on, sounding not unlike Darth Vader as his voice reverberated around the tiny, enclosed blessing area. ‘By the power vested in me which derives over centuries from the ancient druids, I now declare you life partners joined in spiritual union, from this day forth!’

Massive round of applause as Kirk leaned down to kiss his brand new bride and Dawn stood up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

‘I love you, so, so much.’

‘And I’ll love you always.’

Even though it had been a barefoot ceremony, Kirk still towered above her; tall, wiry, lean and so ridiculously handsome with the long, waist-length black hair and flowing white linens; God, Dawn almost wanted to laugh every time she looked at that beautiful face. I’ll never be as happy again, she thought, as I am today. Just wouldn’t be possible … sure, how could it be?

Hard though, not to be aware that at that very moment, her mother, up in the very front row, had abandoned dabbing away at the odd tear and was by now sobbing violently in full-blown floods.

‘Ehh … happy tears, would you say?’ Kirk had whispered softly, shooting her Mum a look of concern.

No, her mother’s tears definitely weren’t happy ones. But it had still been a beautiful commitment service in spite of everything, Dawn forced herself to think, smiling bravely. If you could momentarily just leave aside the tsunami of negativity she and Kirk practically had to wade through, just so they could stand in front of each other that day. All the endless, countless objections from her family, because they were both so ridiculously young.

Not that age even mattered, Dawn had spent at least six months before the wedding trying to convince just about everyone she knew. Like Kirk said, your age was just your number! Besides, when you knew, you just knew. And this was for life. She knew. Just knew.

‘It’s all just too much, too soon!’ her Mum had wailed, when Dawn broke the news that she was committed. (Kirk didn’t believe in the word ‘engaged’; too many negative connotations.)

‘And what in God’s name, I’d like to know, are the pair of you going to live off?’ she’d added crisply. ‘His earnings as a yoga instructor? The land? Good luck with that, my girl!’

Implication heard and understood loud and clear. You’re only twenty-two years of age, missy, and you haven’t the first clue about either life or love. Wait and see, you’ll come running back quick enough just as soon as you start missing all the cushiness of home and having an M&S within a two-mile radius of the house. And when you realize that modern conveniences like electricity, heating and Sky Atlantic can’t be paid for by offering to send free Reiki and homemade yeast-free cookies into the ESB head office.

A far greater disappointment though, had been Eva, who hadn’t exactly been leading conga lines around tables either, when she was first told the Big News.

‘Oh honey,’ she’d said worriedly, ‘I know you’ve always bought into that whole mind, body, spirit thing, but …’

Dawn braced herself, instinctively sensing what was coming next.

‘But the thing is, I really have to speak my mind here or forever hold my peace. And the truth is that you’re rushing headlong into this. For God’s sake, you and Kirk only met a few months ago, this is complete insanity! So there now, I said it. It’s out there.’

‘Totally untrue, not to mention unfair!’ Dawn retorted defensively. ‘Besides, Kirk always says no one can measure the depths of love just in units of time …’

‘Yeah, right,’ Eva had muttered under her breath, as she sipped at her Pinot Grigio and angrily nibbled the bar nuts in front of her, tight-lipped. ‘I’ll bet he does.’

Instinctively, Dawn had gone to diffuse the tension by hopping down off the stool she was perched on and giving Eva a spontaneous, tight bear hug.

‘Ah here,’ said Eva, impatiently shoving her away, ‘what’s with you suddenly hugging people for absolutely no reason? You nearly made me spill red wine all over my good suit!’

‘Just dispelling the negative energy between us,’ Dawn smiled, ‘that’s all.’

‘You never used to be like this,’ Eva said tersely, with her chin jutted out like she was gumming for a good, air-clearing row.

‘Like what?’

‘Like … well, you know.’

‘No,’ said Dawn, genuinely puzzled. ‘No, I don’t know.’

‘Alright then, you never used to behave like the way you’re carrying on these days. Like such a bloody flake-head.’

‘What did you just say?’

‘Come on, Dawn, surely you must see that guy has totally changed you! You used to be … normal. You know, fun to hang around with. But now all you want to do is sit around talking about what a fabulous soul Kirk is, or else telling me that my chakras are all out of alignment. And now you want to throw your whole life away before it’s barely even started, with someone you barely even know? For God’s sake, it’s almost a bit like Kirk and that shower of nutters he’s related to have sucked you into some kind of religious cult! You’ll be shaving your head, wearing orange robes and dancing up and down Grafton Street next, you mark my words.’

Love and forgive, Dawn had to work very hard at remembering, biting back the instinct to defend the man she’d once adored so much. She and Eva had always been close, in spite of a five-year age gap, even more so since their Dad had passed away years ago, when they were just kids. Eva had always been the perfect older sister, always watching out for her, always being there for her, no matter what. A thumbs up from her meant the world to Dawn.

And yet here it was, the single biggest thing ever to happen in Dawn’s life and now all Eva could do was shake her head, wag her finger and tell her she was off her head insane. Hard to sit there and take it and pretend that it didn’t bloody well sting. Even if looking back now, all her dire predictions had all proved one hundred per cent on the money.

Still though, in spite of all the many, many objections from far, far too many people to list, the whole wedding really had been magical from start to finish. At least, so Dawn had thought at the time.

After the initial blessing ceremony, everyone sat in a ‘circle of harmony’, as the High Shaman referred to it, and an Apache tribal poem was read out, to much sniggering from Sheila and Amy, Dawn’s pals from the health food store where she worked. The pair of them kept nudging each other and loudly asking when someone would start playing a bit of Beyoncé, same as at any normal wedding. And whether or not there was a minibar anywhere close by?

‘Try the elderberry wine,’ Dawn had smiled encouragingly over at them. ‘Exact same effect, far less of a hangover!’

‘And for God’s sake,’ she remembered her mother audibly hissing, ‘why do we all have to sit cross-legged and barefoot on the floor for this nonsense, anyway? My outfit is getting completely ruined!’

‘Mine and all,’ grumbled her Mum’s best friend Maisie, who they’d had to invite too. ‘And when I think of all the trouble the pair of us went to, just to find shoes to match our outfits! Then they make you leave them at the door? Ridiculous carry on.’

‘Just chill out and try to enjoy it all,’ Dawn had told them both soothingly. ‘Here, try some organic papaya tea, you’ll like it.’

‘I’d give anything for a normal cup of tea, but I’ll pass on that green stuff thanks,’ her mother sniffed. ‘I’m not a huge fan of dishwater, as it happens.’

Dawn wisely chose to let it go. Yet another life lesson she’d been conquering, thanks to how masterful a guide Kirk was. And God knows, she’d certainly had plenty of practice of banishing all negativity to the ether where it belonged, in the run up to that wedding.

But however bad things got for her – and they only went from bad to worse – Kirk had always been there for her.

‘Remember it’s only because your mother loves you so much,’ he’d gently remind Dawn. ‘You’re her youngest child and she’s like a mother tiger protecting and defending you. Besides, in time, she’ll see that we’re doing the right thing. After all, there’s nothing wrong with meeting your soulmate young, now is there?’

Kirk’s family, at least had been a little more on board about the whole thing, but then the Lennox-Coyninghams could be accused of being many things, but erring on the conservative side when it came to marriage would hardly be one of them. Kirk’s Dad, Dessie, who went around in Jesus sandals and flowing kaftans even in the depths of winter, was already on his fifth ‘life partner’, and had fathered no fewer than eleven children.

An eccentric family, the Lennox-Coyninghams, to put it mildly.

At the wedding, Dawn remembered the part she’d looked forward to most, when the High Shaman brought an end to all the bonding rituals and finally said Kirk ‘could now kiss his beautiful bride and life partner’. To this day, she could still vividly remember him leaning down to her, brushing her waist-length hair away from her face, then really going for it. Tongues, feeling her boobs, the whole works. Not even caring that a whole roomful of guests were staring right at them, most of them clapping and cheering happily. Most of them.

Jesus, Dawn thought, pulling his beautiful body in tightly to her, would tonight ever come and would it ever be just the two of them finally alone? Just for one moment, she wished she could fast-forward through the rest of the whole day and cut straight to the wedding night. And from the sexy way Kirk’s tongue was teasing hers, he seemed to be on exactly the same wavelength as her too. Wasn’t he always? Back then, at least.

Sex you see, was where Kirk really excelled; Mother of Divine, Dawn had never known anything like being in bed with him. With him it had been breathtakingly unbelievable … acrobatic, even Olympian at times. Okay, so maybe a tad exhausting, but still beyond fabulous. Sure, who wouldn’t envy her with a husband and lover like that, she remembered thinking.

Oh, the blessed irony.

Then, after their final blessing, they’d had the gifting ceremony, a truly magical experience, where Dawn and Kirk sat cross-legged in the centre of the Circle of Giving, as well-wishers queued up to give the newlyweds a little something. And the parade of gifts they were presented with really went no end towards cheering Dawn up a bit.

It was so touching, she’d thought, tuning out all the negative vibes, just how generous people had been with gifts, not to mention so imaginative. They’d been given a backpack picnic basket from Willow and Dave, matching his ‘n’ her tie-dye linen shirts from Shiloh, a two-foot-high lemon tree from Poppy (‘so when life gives you lemons, you can both make lemonade!’), a ‘fruit of the month’ club subscription from Josh and Sammie and last but not least, a coffee maker from Kirk’s Dad, Dessie. Which he then proudly whipped open to reveal a three-kilo bag of weed inside.

‘So you kids can really enjoy tonight!’

‘He grows his own!’ Kirk had proudly announced to the room, exactly the same as if he was talking about his Dad’s prize-winning petunias. ‘And it’s the best!’

‘Sweet Mother of Divine!’ Dawn overheard her Mum muttering, fanning her flushed face with the order of service.

‘Ehh … and that’s his idea of a wedding gift?’ Eva hissed back at her. ‘Out of curiosity, have these people ever come across an IKEA catalogue?’

Probably the only time all day her Mum had even cracked a smile.

Dawn flashed the pair of them a lightning quick warning look, for all the good it did her. Why did her side all have to be like this, she’d thought disappointedly, as a shadow suddenly fell across her happy day. So relentlessly rude about everyone and everything? Constantly putting the whole celebration down and finding fault every single place they looked? Why couldn’t any of her family or friends just chill out, relax and celebrate her happiness, like at any other wedding? Why, she wondered for the thousandth time, couldn’t they just be a bit more like Kirk’s family?

The Lennox-Coyninghams were all so cool, so laid back, so free and easy. Drinking the elderberry wine, munching on the yeast-free, gluten-free, non-dairy nibbles, laughing, celebrating, actually enjoying themselves. Like you were supposed to at a wedding. None of them were openly sniping and griping about the day in front of the newlyweds, now were they?

Disappointedly, Dawn snuggled into the crook of Kirk’s arm and he locked her tight in his arms.

‘Just let it all float away, sweetheart,’ he whispered down to her, correctly reading her thoughts. ‘Just remember, we’re life partners now and that’s all that matters.’

Then at midnight, there had been a very moving tree dedication ceremony but the warm, happy glow on Dawn’s day dimmed even further when she realized her Mum wasn’t even there for it. Eventually, she found her in the eco-loos, sobbing her heart out.

‘Oh Mum, please don’t,’ Dawn had said, instinctively going to hug her. ‘This is a happy day!’

‘I can’t do this,’ her mother sobbed, not even bothering to dab away the tears now that had completely destroyed all her carefully applied make-up. ‘I can’t sit back and watch you make the biggest mistake of your life. I can’t and I won’t.’

‘But it’s not a mistake, Mum. I love Kirk, you know that. And this is forever.’

‘Forever! What does a twenty-two-year-old understand about the word forever? You haven’t the first clue what you’re even talking about!’

‘Don’t do this, Mum. I’m so, so happy and I want you to be too.’

But Dawn was wasting her time and she knew it. Still and all though, she thought, as the night began to wind down, she’d somehow still managed to have a magical day, in spite of her side’s best efforts to sabotage it all.

And then, finally, finally, finally, come about 2 a.m., she and Kirk were at last left alone in the Mongolian yurt they’d been given especially for the night.

Dawn was perched at the edge of the bed, shaking loose her plum-tinted, scraggly hair and unhooking the back of her plain white dress, when suddenly Kirk was over beside her, arms locked tight around her waist, jet black mop of his long, silky hair buried deep into her neck.

‘Thank you, my love,’ he murmured.

‘For what?’

‘For doing this. For committing to me today. For loving me the way I love you.’

‘Always,’ she’d whispered back, slipping out of her dress, kicking it aside and abandoning it on the floor. What the feck. It only cost fifteen euro in Penny’s anyway.

‘Just remember,’ she told him lovingly, ‘this is for always.’

‘For always.’

What a lovely, lovely word, Dawn thought, as Kirk’s hands slowly and expertly slid down her naked back.

Always.

*

‘This the address you want then, love?’ the taxi driver said, interrupting her reverie.

Dawn snapped to and realized that they’d already arrived at Eva’s apartment building, right beside Grand Canal Square.

She found cash to pay him, even found the manners to thank him and managed to make it all the way up to Eva’s apartment before collapsing into tears so violent, she even frightened herself.

Chapter Five
Jo.

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 8.05 a.m.

Dave,

Strongly feel for both our sakes that it’s best if we don’t communicate face-to-face right now, but restrict it to emails instead. Besides, I’m just too angry to even look at you right now and would find it a strain not to start flinging ornaments around the place were we to, ‘attempt to solve this,’ as you so naïvely suggest. Sort what exactly, Dave? There is absolutely nothing left for us to talk about.

I assume you’re staying at your mother’s, as I know how fond you are of all your home comforts such as Sky Sports and getting your laundry done, not to mention having home cooked dinners served up to you every night.

However, if you haven’t cleared out the last of your stuff from my flat by the time I get back from London, then please understand; I’m hiring a skip and you can fish your entire vinyl collection, your collection of David Mamet plays (none of which you ever actually appeared in), your raggy, knackery underpants and those vile leather jackets that make you look like a pimp, from the bottom of said skip.

Please Dave, this is the probably the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.

Jo.

From: davesblog@hotmail.com

To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 8.44 a.m.

Dearest wife of mine,

A delight, as always, to be on the receiving end of one of your early morning emails. My, my, what a wondrous mood we’re in today!

What is it with you anyway; do you wake up in bad form, then wonder who you can possibly take it out on? And seeing as how you can’t exactly heap verbal abuse on all your minions in Digitech, because they’d rightly haul your arse through the courts for bullying in the workplace, you think, ah ha! My worthless husband can get a tongue lashing from me and that’ll set me up for the whole morning!

Because it’s always just all about you, isn’t it? Let’s never forget, we’re all just extras in the Jo Hargreaves show, designed purely to snap to your beat.

Your ever-loving hubbie,

Dave.

PS. Lucky guess. Yes, I am staying at Mama’s. Purely because, fond as I am of Bash, his idea of a nutritious meal is a) one that can be shoved into a microwave for three minutes or under and b) comes in a container that is reusable as an ashtray.

PPS. As for clearing out the last of my things, I’ll do it when it bloody well suits me. Which as it happens, is this weekend, when you’re back home.

PPPS. Because we have to talk, Jo. Be reasonable. You must, somewhere deep down beneath that thorny bracken that surrounds your heart these days, be aware of this.

PPPPS. See you when you’re back.

Safe trip. Thinking of you. And in spite of what you may think, sending you love.

Jo was power walking through the airport when that particular email pinged through and after she read it, had to take several deep breaths to try and get her blood pressure back to normal. In for two, out for three, she told herself, in for two and out for three.

But it wasn’t working. Christ, how did Dave always manage to have this effect on her? And did he think insulting her was going to make this any easier?

Don’t answer it, she told herself. Rise above it. Be the bigger person here. But it was no use, two seconds later, her fingers were busily tap tapping away on her iPhone.

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 8.56 a.m.

Oh feck off with yourself, Dave. What gives you the right to start having a go at me?

Please understand that I really do mean it. If I come home to my flat (which I own, which is in my name and mine only, may I remind you), with your shite still littering the place, then I’m changing the locks and flinging the last of your junk out the window. The way I feel right now, I can’t tell you the pleasure it’ll give me. Plus it’ll certainly give the neighbours a right good laugh to get a look at your last anniversary present to me. Because FYI, a print of a red Ferrari is my idea of cheap, tasteless tat.

(Look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Dave Evans: arsehole’.)

About to board my flight.

Don’t bother contacting me again till you’ve done exactly as I ask. And can you please stop leaving voice messages on my phone the length of a radio play? I get the message. But you know what?

Sometimes being sorry for everything just won’t cut it.

Jo.

From: davesblog@hotmail.com

To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.15 a.m.

Christ Jo, you really should take a moment to read back on some of your more stinging emails. Just take note though, this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you. Even though I’m the only one brave/foolhardy enough to say it to your face.

Ever stumbled across the phrase, ‘misdirected anger’?

Suggest you look it up in the dictionary. You’ll find it right there, under, ‘Jo Hargreaves: nut job.’

See you this weekend.

In spite of what you think, I’m still prepared to work things out.

Yours,

Dave.

(Your husband, just in case that minor little factoid had slipped your mind, my pet.)

PS. Will now spend the rest of the day wondering what in the name of all ye Gods happened to that gorgeous, loving girl I married.

Just so you know.

Jo had just boarded her flight when that particular gem pinged through and was about to switch off her phone and let it go, when a sudden hot flush of anger swept right over her.

‘Misdirected anger’? Did Dave really say that? And had she been seeing things or had he actually used the phrase, ‘still prepared to work this out’ after everything that had happened?

She checked the phone again, but there it was, in black and white. Then just as an air hostess made an announcement asking that all portable electronic devices be switched off, she went back to typing furiously, phone hidden under her coat, so no one would see.

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.22 a.m.

Dave,

Out of idle curiosity, you’re prepared to work out what exactly? How you can inveigle your way back into living with me? It’s clearly not because you actually want to be with me, so dare I suggest, because it’s nice and handy for your dole office? So you can continue to sponge off me and live the life of an eternal student, while calling yourself an out-of-work actor?

As for all this utter crap about my ‘misdirecting anger’, frankly, you can take a running jump with yourself. My anger is pretty direct and well aimed, as it happens.

You know what you sound like? A child who thinks every problem in their little life is everyone else’s fault bar theirs. You may have played the part of a head shrink in a show once, but that certainly doesn’t make you one. If you really want to psychoanalyse someone, suggest you start a little closer to home. Oooh, off the top of my head, say for instance, a thirty-eight-year-old man in long-term unemployment, who’s back living with his mother?

Now piss off and leave me alone. Some of us have real work to do.

Jo.

PS. As for ‘this is the result of what we’re going through and how it’s affecting you’? Cop yourself on, Dave. You’re not ‘going through’ anything that I can see. Other than six cans of Bulmers a night, that is.

From: davesblog@hotmail.com

To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.35 a.m.

Dear Queen narky moody-pants,

You know why you’re acting like this and saying these things. Because this isn’t you, at least, not the real you. You’re just acting out and looking for a convenient punchbag. So enter Dave, long-suffering husband, stage left.

That is, at least, I fecking hope it’s not the real you. Otherwise never mind about your threats of wanting a divorce. I bloody want one first. So there. So how do you like it, when it’s thrown back into your pretty and freakishly unlined face?

In spite of what you may think, dearest insane one, I still wish you love and luck on your trip and look forward to seeing you on your return.

Because I’m here for you. And the day may yet come when you’ll need to remember that.

Dxxx

PS. You told me you liked the red Ferrari print. Shattered that you lied. Oh, the deceit of womanhood, etc.

PPS. As for your vitriolic comment re: my employment status, you know I could be in a job right now if I wanted to be. I’ll have you know, dearest one, that I was offered a telly commercial only last week, playing the part of a speaking Sky Plus box, but chose to take the principled stand of telling the casting director where he could go and shove it. Because in spite of your oft-repeated ‘career advice’ to me, I refuse to compromise my art for mere lucre.

PPPS. I don’t really want a divorce. I don’t want one at all. In fact, I want to stay married to you forever and ever, if only to annoy you. I want us to grow old and grey together, then be the one who wheels you around the nursing home, when you’re stroke-ridden and need someone to wipe your arse. That’s a measure of how much I’m staying married to you, sweet spouse of mine.

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 9.42 a.m.

Dave,

As it happens, I think you’d have made a fantastic speaking Sky Plus box. Shame you weren’t offered something made of wood though, then you really could have had a chance to show off your range.

Have to go, flight taxiing now.

Am greatly looking forward to coming home to a lovely, empty flat, free of any and all reminders of you.

Jo.

PS. Please don’t tell me the subliminal reasons behind my behaviour. I know there’s nothing easier for you in the world than to conveniently blame what I’ve been dealing with personally for the breakdown of our relationship.

But trust me, it’s broken and unfixable. It’s over.

From: davesblog@hotmail.com

To: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 11.10 a.m.

Sweet-natured angel of mine,

Has your flight landed yet? Because I’ve a few further points I’d like to make and given the humour you’re in these days, it’ll be more than my life’s worth to say to your face.

Firstly, may I remind you that I’ve done absolutely everything you ever asked of me? You were the one who wanted to get married in the first place, when we’d only been seeing each other for about a year. And I use the term, ‘seeing each other’ loosely, given that you were off on business trips more often than not. So I did what you wanted and proposed.

Then you were the one who bloody well insisted on a three-ring circus of a wedding, which was basically anathema to me, but I kept my mouth shut, just so you could have your dream day. Even though the sight of myself in the wedding photos, beaten into that poncey-looking morning suit still makes me want to vomit.

Thirdly, you were the one who made the decision that if you were ever going to have a child, then now was your chance. Again, I had virtually feck all say in the matter, but still went along with it. I actually wanted us to have a family of our own, and for the record sweetheart, I thought we’d have made grade A parents. You’ve have instilled discipline in our kid, whereas I’d have taught them when and where it was okay to wave two fingers at anything remotely resembling authority.

Not only that, but may I point out that I’ve stood by you through everything else that’s been heaped on us since? I’m blue in the face at this stage reminding you that what you’re soldiering through, I am too, as it happens. I know that minor, inconvenient fact tends to be overlooked by you, but just take a moment to really dwell on it, my love.

Why would you think that a miscarriage followed by several failed IVF treatments would be any less painful for me? Where’s it written that you get to have the monopoly on disappointment and heartache and just what a fucking nightmare we’re both stuck in here?

As an aside, on that very point, I spoke to Bash’s pal Emma about what we’ve been going through. She’s a maternity nurse and says your behaviour and the way you’re acting so unlike your usual self is actually perfectly normal. It’s just all those shagging hormones and fertility drugs they’ve been pumping into your body for the last eighteen months. That’s all and it will pass.

Lastly, dearest love, you asked me to move out. Ergo, I did.

But over my dead body am I going to make this divorce easy for you. No, you don’t get away from me that easily.

Your ever-loving husband,

Dave.

Jo had landed in Heathrow by then, having spent the entire flight doing all the lovely calming exercises she’d been taught at the clinic she’d been attending as an outpatient. But the very second she switched her phone back on and read that particular gem, somehow every bit of the deep breathing and meditation went right out the window.

Don’t reply, she warned herself. If Dave wants the last word that badly, then let him have it. But try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself and a few seconds later, her fingers were busy tapping away.

From: Jo_Marketing_Director@digitech.com

To: davesblog@hotmail.com

Re: The last of your things.

April 17th, 11.17 a.m.

Dave,

If you ever even think about discussing the ins and outs of my medical history with some random stranger ever again, I’ll not only hit you with a divorce petition, but also I’ll personally see to it that you’re hauled through the courts for breach of privacy.

Jesus Dave?!! What next? You going to start standing on street corners, handing out flyers with photos of my lady bits on them?

And just so you know, this is categorically NOT hormones. It’s you, driving me insane. End of.

Jo.

Chapter Six
Lucy.

‘So you’ve really left him then?’

‘Be more accurate to say we left each other,’ Lucy answered, knocking back the dregs of the margarita in front of her and crunching loudly on an ice cube. It was her third and she probably should have left it at that, but somehow she found herself waving over to the barman for the same again. To hell with it anyway, she thought. My marriage just ground to a shuddering halt this week, why the hell not?

‘Oh Lucy,’ her pal Bianca said, shaking her head sadly and dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a Kleenex. ‘I just can’t believe it. I mean, this is you and Andrew we’re talking about. You were like the gold standard of happy couples! If you guys can’t make it, then what hope is there for the rest of us?’

Lucy managed a weak, watery smile back at her. Bianca was a sweet, lovely girl who meant well, but who actually did nothing but make Lucy feel guilty, for having the barefaced cheek to have marital problems in the first place.

Bianca, it had to be explained, was a die-hard romantic, who’d watched one too many romcoms starring Jennifer Aniston, and was convinced that once you sealed the deal with a bloke and had a ring on your finger to show for it, it would inevitably lead to happy ever after. And the sad thing was that at one time, Lucy had bought into all that too.

Whereas now she thought, what a load of my arse.

Besides as far as Bianca knew, what she believed was the absolute truth. After all, she and Andrew had once been loved up and happy together, hadn’t they? So happy; Hollywood-ending happy. In fact, that was the whole bloody tragedy of it. Lucy had honestly thought this was her soulmate; the man she’d happily grow old with. The two of them should have ended up old and grey, worrying about their cholesterol and going off on Nile cruises, with a prescription for Viagra stuck in his back pocket on account of the age gap.

Not, for the love of God, with her sitting on a barstool, with the hangover from hell, yet already onto her third margarita and wondering how many more it would take for her to get so completely hammered that it would somehow numb the pain a bit.

Lucy had never really been much of a drinker, but these days booze was the only thing getting her through this. Lovely, lovely booze and lots of it. It was completely unlike her, not her normal carry-on at all, but then she figured, if this wasn’t a dire emergency, then what was?

‘None of this was your fault, you know,’ Bianca told her firmly. ‘If it hadn’t been for … well, you know. Circumstances.’

‘I know, sweetheart,’ said Lucy, squeezing her hand, flushing with gratitude to have a genuine pal like this in her corner. ‘Circumstances. That’s all it came down to in the end really, wasn’t it?’

But she certainly didn’t need reminding of the circumstances that had suddenly propelled her out of her beautiful marital home with a husband she loved, to sleeping in Bianca’s spare room and effectively living out of a suitcase.

‘Well, all I can say is, I hope Alannah and Josh are finally happy with themselves now,’ said Bianca, nibbling crossly on the bowl of peanuts in front of her.

‘Are you kidding me? You can bet the pair of them are out celebrating getting rid of their beloved stepmother tonight with a bottle of Cristal …’ Lucy broke off here a bit, but then when it came to Andrew’s grown-up children from his first marriage, it was bloody hard going, keeping an even temper.

Sweet Mother of God, where to start about Alannah and Josh? They were twins and at twenty-eight, just two years younger than Lucy herself, so initially when Lucy first came into their lives, she’d made the critical error of trying to befriend them both. I’m dating their father, she’d naïvely thought back then. So can’t we all just get along and be friends?

Right from day one, she’d really gone the extra mile with both of them. She constantly put herself into their shoes and realized how incredibly awkward this whole icky situation had to be for both of them. After all, wasn’t this the oldest scenario in the book? A fifty-something divorcee, suddenly dating a new and considerably younger girlfriend? To his kids, she figured, I must look like the mid-life equivalent of a Porsche. Lucy had been around the block enough to know how utterly shite it must have been for the twins, and had genuinely bent over backwards trying to blend them all into one big happy family.

But in spite of all her proffered kindness and numerous olive branches, their rudeness back to her knew no bounds and it was honestly like the more of a superhuman effort she made with them, the more they despised her for it.

On countless occasions, she’d gone out of her way to invite Alannah to fashion shows that she was working on, or else to highly exclusive sample sales most girls would have sold a kidney to get into, mainly because fabulous designer gear straight off a catwalk was usually flogged off for half nothing. Not only that, but Lucy had regularly made a point of inviting Josh along to the flashy fashionista cocktail dos she was always getting plus ones for, where he could spend the whole night surrounded by beautiful women. Sure, what normal fella his age wouldn’t kill for that?

Out of the goodness of her heart, Lucy had genuinely meant well. In spite of everything that had happened since and in spite of all the pain that had been caused, she’d desperately wanted them all to get along, but Alannah and Josh only sneered at her and dismissed her because she was a ‘just a model’. And of course, the two of them had her pigeon-holed as some kind of brainless, vapid party girl who’d been lucky enough to meet this older, wealthy, distinguished guy and somehow cajole him down the aisle.

Heather Mills, they’d nicknamed her behind her back (she knew for a fact; she’d accidentally overheard), and it bloody well stung.

But then, that was the thing about Lucy. People were always reading about her in the papers or else seeing her on photo shoots in glossy magazine ads and had her down as tough and flinty, a girl well able to take care of herself. And yet, underneath all that, she might as well have been a big, soft marshmallow. So Josh and Alannah and their never-ending petty little slights got to her on a daily basis. How could they not?

And they never, not for one millisecond, seemed to let up. They’d never forgive her for what had happened to their family and by God, from day one they’d been determined to make Lucy pay with her heart’s blood. Whether it was her fault or not.

Back at the bar, Bianca was now rummaging round the bottom of her handbag.

‘Oh … by the way, I’ve got something here you probably should see, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be best to show you after a couple of drinks, to … well, to lessen the impact a bit.’

‘Ehh … I’m guessing it’s a decree nisi that Alannah and Josh made Andrew sign, with a gun pointed to his head?’

‘Not quite that bad, but …’

Apologetically, Bianca held up a copy of that evening’s Chronicle. And there it was in glorious Technicolor for all the world to see.

LUCY BELTER AND HER SUGAR DADDY HIT THE ROCKS! EXCLUSIVE.

‘Oh, you’re kidding me,’ Lucy groaned, head in her hands.

‘Sorry. Thought you’d be better off seeing it with a few drinks on you.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m way too sober for this. Where’s the barman with our refills?’

Bianca looked at her worriedly. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea, love? It’s just you’ve got that huge photo shoot first thing in the morning and you really need to look the biz.’

‘Just one for the road then,’ said Lucy, though she wasn’t even sure she meant it. Alcohol was just about the only thing getting her through this whole nightmare.

‘Right then, if you insist,’ said Bianca doubtfully. ‘Though I’m warning you, I’m making you drink buckets of water with it too. You need your beauty sleep.’

Bianca was a stylist and acutely aware of how important it was for models to look fresh and camera-ready at all times. As she headed off to the bar, Lucy smiled fondly after her and silently blessed the girl for being such a stalwart. God knows, she needed her mates around her now. Then her eye fell on the headline and in spite of herself, she winced again.

There was a downside of living your life in the public eye and Lucy was very well-known, not only as a model, but thanks to a regular slot she had on Good Morning Ireland! as a ‘fashionista and trend commentator’. In other words, after any major red carpet event, Lucy was your go-to personality to sit in a hot TV studio and pass comments like, ‘If you ask me, all Angelina Jolie needs is a nice, light spray tan and a Supersize Big Mac meal in that order.’

And amazingly, TV gigs really started to take off for her. Producers told her she was a born natural and audiences seemed to relish her gutsy, down-to-earth, no-nonsense approach.

Lucy loved what she did and most of the time was happy to see stories about herself in the papers; after all, it was part and parcel of her job, she reckoned. A job she’d worked bloody hard at since she’d first been ‘discovered’ at the tender age of fifteen. Her family wasn’t wealthy and privileged like Andrew’s; she’d had to graft for everything that came her way in life. But amazingly, right from day one, her career seemed to just take off. Six feet tall, with Nordic good looks and cheekbones you could nearly slice ham on, she was a natural. In next to no time, she was earning some serious money for herself, between catwalk shows and magazine shoots.

But Lucy was shrewd and streetwise and took absolutely nothing for granted, knowing that a model’s sell-by date was short and a dole queue was potentially just a heartbeat away from her. So she took on every single modelling gig that was offered to her, slogging, slaving and grafting for everything that came her way.

You need a model to stand shivering in a bikini in the middle of Grafton Street in February to advertise sun holidays? Lucy was your first port of call. Or you need a glamour gal to climb naked into a giant vat of cold beans, just so you could promote some new reduced fat range? She was your gal. No job too big, too small or too mortifying. And recession or no, miraculously the money kept rolling in.

Of course the downside of having a public profile was that for months now, all sorts of sleazy tabloids were running features speculating on the state of her marriage. As far as possible, she did her level best to avoid reading any of that crap, but still. Hard not to feel like your nerve endings were lying jangled and exposed every time you glanced at a byline that screeched into your face,

THEY WERE A MISMATCH FROM THE WORD GO!

Alannah and Josh, she thought bitterly, must be having a bloody field day with all this.

Just then, a song came on the bar’s music system. ‘True Love’ by Cole Porter. And completely unbidden, a memory surfaced, something Lucy thought she’d buried deep inside and worked bloody hard at keeping there. But in spite of her best efforts, the recollection still bubbled to the surface.

No, she warned herself, feeling her bottom lip start to wobble. Don’t sink under. It’s just a silly love song; DO NOT let it get to you. You’re doing so well. All you’ve got to do is stay strong.

But it was no use.

Because the fact was, the last time Lucy heard that song had been on her wedding day. At the tiny little reception dinner afterwards, to be exact. She and Andrew had got married barefoot on the beach, at sunset in Cancun, and it was initially supposed to have been just the two of them and no one else. After all, getting married abroad seemed like the most elegant way of side-stepping all the attendant drama that they’d have had to deal with, had they got married quickly and quietly in the registry office at home, as had been their original plan. After all, Alannah and Josh wouldn’t have liked it and the last thing Lucy wanted to do was cause any offence on her wedding day.

No doubt about it; the best way to avoid being accused of insensitivity around his first family was just as Andrew rightly said, ‘to get married miles away from everyone on the beach of some tropical island, at sunset. Just you and me, darling, and not another soul. I don’t want a three-ring circus like I had the first time round, for all the good that did me. Just the woman I love and a priest to marry us. As long as you turn up to marry me, then that’s all that matters.’

‘I think it’s a fabulous idea!’ Lucy had told him delightedly at the time, feeling like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

‘And you’re sure you don’t mind missing out on doing the whole big white wedding thing?’ he’d asked her, a bit worriedly. ‘It’s perfectly alright for me, you know, I’ve done all this before, I’ve had the whole shindig. But this is your big day, sweetheart, and all I want is for you to be happy.’

‘I couldn’t give a damn where we do it, you know that,’ Lucy whispered into his chest, snuggling into him, loving the feel of his arms locking tightly around her. ‘As long as we’re together, isn’t that all that matters?’

‘Excellent,’ he twinkled, lightly kissing her forehead. ‘Then it’s settled. Apart from the family, let’s say nothing to anyone. Let’s just book it and then think of how surprised everyone will be when we come back as man and wife?’

‘You see?’ she’d laughed happily at him. ‘This is why I love you! You’ve just solved so many problems in one fell swoop and no one can possibly take offence at our going away now!’

‘And of course there’s something else,’ he’d added, leaning in to kiss her properly now. ‘Technically, our wedding will actually be our honeymoon too … so …’

‘So … what you’re saying is …’ she teased, nibbling on his ear, knowing right well the effect it had on him. ‘The minute we’re married, we can go straight from the boring church bit, skip the whole reception part and really start putting our honeymoon suite to good use?’

‘Well, now you just read my thoughts.’

Lucy didn’t remember much more about that night after that.

Mind you, it hadn’t been easy, breaking it to her own mother and the rest of her family that there wouldn’t actually be some big fancy-schmancy wedding at home. Instead, just a tiny, strictly private beach wedding abroad, followed by a New Year’s Eve dinner back home instead. Lucy hated seeing the hurt in her Mum’s red, rheumy eyes at the news that she wouldn’t be able to go to her adored youngest girl’s wedding, but she still held firm. After all, she and Andrew had a deal; just the two of them and no one else.

But of course at the very last minute, and as soon as they heard the wedding just happened to involve a freebie trip to the Caribbean, Alannah and Josh had managed to inveigle themselves along. Lucy was tight-lipped with fury about it, but figured, this is the man I love and these, after all, are his kids and I’m about to be their stepmother. So what can I do?

The song played on as yet more memories resurfaced. Getting worse and worse it seemed, each and every time.

There had been the wedding dinner, with tensions around the table almost ready to skyrocket. They’d made a dismal little party that night; just herself and Andrew, side by side, clutching hands with Alannah and Josh at the table opposite them, glowering on. Just the four of them.

And the killer was that it could have been perfect. It should have been perfect. It should have been relaxed and romantic, just the two of them in this tropical paradise, just like they’d planned. But it was hardly likely either Lucy or her husband of barely two hours would look back on this day without shuddering, Lucy remembered thinking, glancing round the table in the Mexican restaurant and trying her level best not to vomit at what was going on around her.

‘So anyway Dad,’ Alannah harped across the table at him, while poor, patient Andrew listened on, glancing between Alannah and Josh. Both of them, by the way, with faces like thunder on this, the happy occasion of their Dad’s second marriage. Almost as though they’d been forced to come all this way to this fabulous, five-star resort hotel on a sandy white Caribbean beach with guns pointed to their heads, when in fact the exact opposite was the case.

‘If you could just see your way to fixing up for my hotel room, Dad, I’d be very grateful,’ Alannah was trying to cajole Andrew. ‘I’m just a bit cash strapped at the minute, you see. What, with all the expense of Christmas and then having to buy an outfit for this wedding … well, you know yourself. Chi-ching. Anyway, you don’t mind stepping up to the plate a bit here, do you? Come on, you wouldn’t begrudge me today of all days! After all, I did travel out all this way, just to be here for you.’

Lucy stayed tight-lipped and managed to say nothing. At the very least, she thought gratefully, the sound of the restaurant’s mariachi band playing some long-forgotten song the Gypsy Kings had a hit with approximately fifteen years ago, went some way towards drowning out the conversation a bit. Just look out the terrace onto the sea, she told herself, shivering slightly against the cool of the restaurant’s air conditioning and pulling her wrap tightly round slender, tanned shoulders.

Forget about this tortuous evening and instead think about how sparkly the distant Caribbean looks in the moonlight. Focus on the warm, tropical breeze that’s gently wafting through the restaurant’s open terrace doors. Focus on Andrew, her soulmate, lover and now brand new husband. Focus on just about anything except Andrew’s two adult children.

‘Oh yeah … and another thing,’ Alannah was still droning on in that nasally, whining voice that was not unlike listening to nails being dragged down a blackboard. ‘Just to let you know, Dad, I seem to have built up a serious load of room service charges. Only telling you so you don’t have a heart attack when you see the final bill! Oh … and by the way, for Christmas, I saw the most fabulous sapphire ring in the jewellers … not dropping hints or anything, just pointing you in the right direction, that’s all!’

Give me strength, Lucy thought, flushing like a forest fire from a combination of the warm, tropical breeze, the huge meal she’d just gorged herself on, and the very real sensation that she could strangle Alannah with her bare hands, wedding day or no wedding day.

And no, it wasn’t the bloody money, of course it wasn’t. Andrew’s cash was his to spend in any way he saw fit and Lucy would have been the last person to begrudge him splashing out on his two kids. After all, why shouldn’t he? He was a wealthy man with pots of money to go around and Lucy wasn’t the type to give two hoots what he chose to do with it. He could have gone and blown the whole lot of it on Mars Bars and she’d just have laughed.

No, what got to Lucy more than anything were Alannah and Josh’s never ending list of demands towards their Dad, almost like they were extorting guilt money. And at the end of the day, guilt over what? Andrew had split with his ex well over five years ago, surely time to put all that behind them and move on?

And oh dear God, did the pair of them know so well how to pick and choose their moment. Perfect timing now for them to lay yet more demands on their father, when he was sitting back at the end of his wedding day; relaxed, chilled out, glass of brandy in one hand, cigar clamped to the other.

‘Oh yeah, and another thing I’ve been meaning to say to you, Dad,’ Josh chipped in, sitting with the full of his long, bony back to Lucy, patently ignoring her and putting Andrew square on the spot now. On the man’s wedding day.

‘You have to understand that having the reception in that fancy restaurant Pichet, when we all get back to Dublin next week is kinda upsetting for Mum. It’s just that she often goes there for lunch with the girls and she feels it’s really insensitive towards her. I mean like, the maître d’ is a really close pal of hers. And after all, it is, like, the season of goodwill and everything. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve and Mum’s probably all on her own at home right now …’

Josh, by the way, was all of twenty-eight years of age and still living with his Mammy, with all the attendant comforts that entailed. And who’d turned up to the wedding ceremony today dressed in a pair of Bermuda shorts and looking exactly like a Shane McGowan song. Almost as though he was trying to feign maximum disdain for his father’s second marriage.

‘Bit much, flaunting it right in front of Mum’s face, don’t you think?’ Josh was still hammering on, no matter how hard Lucy tried to tune him out. ‘It’s just really hard on her, you know. So is it too late to … you know … like, just cancel the wedding thingy at the restaurant and back out of the whole thing?’

‘Ehh,’ Andrew mumbled, flushing a bit as he always did whenever his ex-wife was dragged up in front of Lucy. ‘Well actually, it might be a tad awkward at this late stage, you see …’

‘Come on Dad, you’re already officially married! You’ve had the ceremony, you’ve done the deed and it’s all over and done with now. Surely you don’t need to invite everyone you’ve ever met in your life to some posh dinner when you get home as well, do you? It’s just I’d hate for Mum to feel her nose was being rubbed in it. I mean, it’s actually really insensitive, when you think about it.’

‘Ahh, well you see …’ Andrew began genially, but Lucy interrupted, unable to contain herself much longer.

‘It’s more than awkward to cancel our wedding celebration now, Josh, I’m afraid,’ she fired back, not even giving a shite if she sounded rude. ‘The party is all booked for New Year’s Eve, we’ve reserved most of the restaurant and invited over fifty guests. Including my own family, who really wanted to be here today, as it happens. And this is the only chance that we both get to celebrate with them, not to mention all my close pals and your Dad’s colleagues from work. To call the whole party off now would be the height of rudeness, not to mention that it could probably break the restaurant.’

Besides, she added silently, if either you or your mother had a bloody problem, then why didn’t you tell us when we were first booking it? All of two months ago! Why leave it till the week before to start griping? And if you’re so worried about your Mum being alone and upset over Christmas, then what are you even doing here in the first place? Why not stay home with her, if you’re all that concerned?

Andrew slipped a supportive arm around his new bride’s waist while Josh stopped all his sniping and just settled for glaring moodily at his new stepmother instead, temporarily silenced. But then Lucy knew the drill all too well by now. She may have won that tiny battle, but she was still fighting a losing war. And make no mistake, this was all-out war.

Then after an interminably long, drawn-out dinner, Andrew gently ting-tinged the glass in front of him and rose to his feet to make an impromptu little speech.

‘First of all,’ he began hesitatingly, ‘I’d like to thank both of my beautiful children for being here on this very special day.’

Funny, but Lucy could still remember thinking how handsome he looked in his white linen suit, tanned and relaxed and so sexy, in a silver-haired, moustached, Tom Selleck-y way. And good-naturedly, she began a tiny ripple of applause, to back him up. But no one, she noticed, joined in with her.

‘And now if I may turn for a moment to my beautiful bride …’

Alannah called over the waiter and ordered another glass of wine, looking anywhere except at her Dad’s beautiful new bride.

‘I first clapped eyes on this gorgeous young girl at an awards ceremony my bank was hosting and thought she was the most attractive woman I’d ever seen …’ Andrew gamely went on.

‘And then he went home and told his wife all about it,’ Josh muttered.

Both Andrew and Lucy heard him loud and clear, it was impossible not to, but both stayed tight-lipped. Not the time and certainly not the place.

‘… Though in a million years, it never occurred to me that this vision of loveliness would ever have anything to do with an aul’ fella like myself!’ Andrew continued. ‘I persisted though, didn’t I, Lucy, and eventually got you to agree to go on a date with me … do you remember, darling?’

Lucy had to smile. Course she remembered. Andrew had somehow got hold of her number to ask her out to dinner not long after the awards do and her heart had just gone out to him. He’d told her about all the trouble he’d been having at home and how his marriage was effectively over, in all but name.

‘… Of course it wasn’t the easiest time in my private life,’ he was saying, with just a tiny nod of acknowledgment towards Alannah and Josh. ‘But I do think that over time and with great perseverance on my part, true love eventually won the day. And so without further ado, can I ask you all to raise a glass to the new Mrs Lowe? My darling Lucy, you’re the love of my life. After my first marriage broke up, I never thought I’d smile again, laugh again, be happy again. Then you came along and with a simple wave of your hand, you changed everything. In my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d be blessed enough to find a soulmate at my hour of life? And yet it happened. So now, it’s my supreme wish to make every day of our new life together absolutely magical. To my breathtaking bride!’

Lucy beamed warmly back at him and toasted him back, but it seemed Andrew wasn’t finished yet.

‘And now would anyone else care to say a few words?’ he added, looking hopefully from Josh to Alannah. ‘Maybe to welcome Lucy into our little family?’

No takers though. Instead, just stony, mortifying silence.

‘After all, she is now officially a member of the Lowe family,’ he added, flushing just a bit.

Still nothing. Just the sound of the mariachi band playing ‘True Love’. Odd and discordant, Lucy remembered thinking from out of nowhere, to hear it sung in a Mexican accent.

‘Josh? Alannah?’ Andrew persisted, with just the tiniest edge creeping into his voice.

Say something, Lucy tried to madly telegraph over to the pair of them. Not for me, for your Dad. It would mean so much to him today of all days. For God’s sake, he paid for your entire trip, would it kill you to string three sentences together on the man’s wedding day?

‘Okay, Dad,’ Alannah said, in a dangerously low voice that Lucy instantly recognized meant trouble. ‘Here’s a few words for you.’

And suddenly, it was like no air moved.

‘You broke our family,’ Alannah said in a low, even voice. ‘While you were busy moving on at the speed of light after you’d separated, you broke Mum’s heart. And for the record, you broke us. So there you go. Enjoy your wedding night. And I hope you can live with that. But if you think I’m hanging around to hear more about how happy and in love you are now, then you’re wrong. I’m out of here. You know I came all the way here for you, I wanted to be here for you, to try to support you if I could. But I’ve officially had enough. I tried Dad, but you know what? Turns out it’s just too bloody hard.’

The air pulsed, as her words just seemed to hang there. Andrew, glass in hand, froze, just staring at her. This is exactly what it feels like, Lucy thought, to be punched right in the solar plexus.

*

Back on her lonely barstool all of three years on and it looked like Alannah had actually cursed her that day, like some kind of wicked fairy at a feast. Because there were four things Lucy knew now with absolute certainty.

That Alannah and Josh had set out to sabotage her marriage from day one.

That never in her wildest dreams could she could have foreseen the lengths they’d go to. The depths they were prepared to crawl to, just to be rid of her.

That she’d underestimated them at her peril.

And lastly, she thought, downing her shot in one gulp, just to stem the nausea, it was purely a matter of time before she and Andrew would be divorced.

Chapter Seven
Chloe.

‘Welcome to the Hope Street Hotel.’

Oh God, I love saying it so much! Can’t stop myself; every workman, interior designer, plumber and carpenter that crosses the threshold, is warmly welcomed to the Hope Street Hotel. We’ve got just two weeks to go before showtime and even though there’s a mountain of work to do before we officially throw our doors open for business, I couldn’t be prouder or happier of how it’s all pulling together. This is the single biggest challenge I’ve ever faced into, and by God, I’ll move heaven and earth if I have to, to make it work.

The hotel industry here in Ireland is actually starting to sit up and take notice of us too. There was even a piece about us in a trade magazine, naming me as General Manager and giving a bit of a blurb about our mission statement. I went a bit jelly-legged reading it, with pride, yes, but mainly because all I could think was, Frank will see this. And then he’ll know, won’t he? He’ll know I’m back here, less than a five-minute walk from where he works.

I get a quick, momentary stab of insecurity combined with nervousness like I’ve never known. Sudden flashbacks keep coming back to me just at the thought of Frank, and I half wonder if he’ll get in contact to wish me luck maybe? I’m just trying to figure out if I find that either terrifying or hopeful, when I’m quickly hauled out of it by yet another last minute snag at the hotel that needs troubleshooting.

Because there’s still so much to be done before we officially open our doors, there’s barely time to give thought to much else. Every morning, I’m at the desk in my cosy little basement office at the hotel by 7.30 a.m. and the whole day seems to go by in a complete blur. Meetings with accountants, interior designers, not to mention Ferndale’s Human Resources manager who’s over from the UK to headhunt and interview prospective staff. Believe me, it doesn’t end. And I’m absolutely loving every minute and although I crawl back to my parents’ house every night bone-tired from exhaustion, I can honestly say this is the most optimistic and forward-looking I’ve felt in a long, long time. In fact, ever since I first got that phone call to tell me I had this job, something is slowly starting to shift inside of me. Almost like all this hard work is slowly starting to erode the rock of pain that was locked away inside me. Which can’t be a bad thing, right?

Anyway, it’s just coming up to lunchtime one day, when I’m dashing out of one meeting to get back to my desk and catch up on emails. I’m padding my way down the softly carpeted back stairs, leading into the rabbit warren of tiny basement offices that’s a bit like the nerve centre of the whole operation, when suddenly I notice a dramatic shift in the atmosphere round here. Hard to describe, but it’s almost like the health inspectors or else some contrary restaurant critic has unexpectedly dropped in on us unannounced, for an early spot check.

‘You okay?’ I ask Chris Smyth, my assistant manager and general right-hand woman round here. Now Chris is normally the personification of long blonde coolness; she’s worked for Ferndale for years, was seconded over from the UK weeks ago and I’ve yet to see the girl anything other than composed, efficient and bursting with energy. Whenever things get on top of me, she’s that rational voice of calmness in my ear that says, ‘It’s fine. You can do this. Just take it all one step at a time.’ Even at half seven in the morning, when the rest of us are still struggling to look alert on six hours’ sleep, she’s one of those people who are perpetually bright-eyed, alert and generally an all-round ray of sunshine.

But not now.

‘Chloe, you’re needed upstairs, quick,’ the poor girl almost hyperventilates at me. ‘He’s here! Actually here. Now. One of his spot checks. And I had no idea we were even to expect him … I mean, nobody rang me from the UK to warn me, or anything, and the place isn’t nearly ready! So what are we going to do? The decorators are still working in the bar area and it’s a total mess … and then there’s the garden that still isn’t landscaped fully … and don’t get me started on all the snags we’re still dealing with …’

‘Shh, shh, Chris,’ I tell her as soothingly as I can, while half looking round my desk for a brown paper bag I can get the girl to breathe into. ‘For starters, who exactly has just landed in on us anyway?’

Either President Michael D. Higgins, from the way she’s going on, or possibly one of U2 with the full entourage? And then it dawns on me.

‘Chris, by any chance are you trying to tell me that Rob McFayden is here? Upstairs? Right this minute?’

‘Waiting for you at Reception,’ she nods breathlessly. Almost with ‘and sooner you than me’ tattooed across her forehead.

I gulp and try very hard just to breathe. This is okay, I tell myself, this is fine. I haven’t actually seen him since the day he first interviewed me, but of course I’ve been in almost daily contact with him over the phone. He has a habit of calling me at the oddest times and from the most unexpected corners of the globe, checking in on our progress. Hard not to get the impression that he still isn’t quite there yet when it comes to fully trusting me, but there you go.

He was in Dubai, I know, last week. Paris before that. Then Rome the week before. Last time we talked, he said something about Milan. The guy must just live out of a suitcase and survive on plasticky airline food and little else. And all his calls are brisk, businesslike and generally all over in under four minutes.

Of course, I’ve been keeping Rob McFayden fully updated. And okay yeah, so maybe I have painted a slightly more positive picture than I should have. Maybe I have, ahem, glossed over the cracks a little more than I should have done, but come on. Who doesn’t, when their boss calls demanding updates?

Everything’s coming together beautifully, I’ve been calmly telling him. We’re as close to being on track and on target as it’s possible to be at this point. After all, someone as busy as Rob McFayden doesn’t need to be bothered with details about light fittings in the bedrooms and a bit of mud out in the back garden, I figured.

But did I really, honestly think he wouldn’t land in on us to see how the place is coming together for himself? Course not. Just assumed I might get a bit of advance warning first, that’s all.

Taking a deep breath, I squeeze Chris’s arm, say ‘Wish me luck!’ as brightly as I can, then trip up the main staircase that leads from the basement maze of offices up to Reception.

Do NOT let nerves get the better of you, I tell myself sternly, clipping along as fast as tight shoes will allow. He hired you because somewhere deep down he must believe in you, so all you have to do is just believe in yourself. You CAN do this. And yes, agreed, the hotel is currently a work-in-progress and of course, Rob McFayden could find holes to pick with a thousand things if he really wanted to. But after all, we’re all working flat out here, aren’t we? How can it be humanly possible for us to do much more?

I reach the top of the back stairs and sure enough, there he is, the man himself. Tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair, dressed like he just rolled out of bed in his own personal ‘uniform’ of a Gap t-shirt, jeans, trainers and a light blue sweater. Like it’s permanently dress-down Friday round here.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my uniform, but the sight of Rob McFayden looking so Sunday morning casual instantly makes me feel like a right prissy frump, in my Ferndale Hotels navy blue suit, with name badge neatly pinned to it. Tall and authoritative, he’s chatting easily on his mobile with his full back to me. He hears the clickety-clack of my work high heels though, as I briskly walk along the marble tiled floor behind him, and turns round to face me.

I mouth ‘Hi!’ and give a quick, nervous little wave, thinking, Do not, under any circumstances allow yourself to be intimidated. Just walk tall, act confident and sooner or later, the whole world will believe the lie.

After all, it’s the first time I’ve seen him since the day he interviewed me, feck it, I’m entitled to be a bit antsy.

‘Just gimme one sec,’ he mimes back at me, with a quick half-wink and a ‘winding up’ gesture, as if to say he’s trying his best to end the call.

Right. So obviously I’m expected to hang on then, and try and not look like I’m earwigging. Which is awkward, to say the least, given the conversation he happens to be having.

‘Yes, darling,’ he’s saying in a low voice down the phone. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then that’s absolutely fine by me. You’re the boss!’

Ahem. Well, you’re certainly not onto the bank manager, I think, eyes darting down and pretending to busy myself with much pointless tapping at the computer behind Reception. Tell you one thing though, whatever woman he’s talking to right now, she certainly knows how to keep the likes of Rob McFayden well and truly under her thumb.

‘Now you’re absolutely sure about this, love?’ he’s saying. ‘I just want you to be completely happy wherever we go, you know that.’

Wow. Suddenly, it strikes me just how completely different his whole tone of voice is, even since the last time I met him. Right now, he sounds absolutely nothing like the intensely focused, businesslike whirl of energy who first interviewed me, all those weeks back. Instead, if anything, he sounds tender to whoever he’s onto, gentle even. Loving and warm. The exact polar opposite to what’s received wisdom within the industry about the mighty Rob McFayden.

Wonders will never cease. Got to hand it to whoever this particular girlfriend is. If you can keep an alpha male like this in check, then world domination probably wouldn’t present too much of a challenge afterwards.

Jeez, wait till I tell Chris, is my immediate, tacked-on thought.

‘Alright, say I pick you up on Saturday, usual time?’ Rob asks softly, like he doesn’t want me to hear. But even though I’m madly trying my best to pretend that there’s urgent business under the shelves behind the reception desk that needs my attention, it’s just impossible not to.

‘Alright, love,’ he says, finally wrapping it up. ‘That’s a date. Till then. Yes, me too, you know that.’

Eeugh. Overhearing that almost feels like I’m invading his personal space. But he appears to have no such qualms though, just clicks off the phone and strides over to where I’m standing, hand outstretched.

‘Apologies about that. Had to take that call, you understand,’ he says, meeting my gaze with all the cool confidence of someone just off the phone to their stockbroker.

‘Of course, emm … Mr McFayden,’ I smile back, brightly as I can, hoping against hope that I’m not flushing and sweating like a wino.

‘I told you, it’s Rob.’

‘Sorry, Rob. I have to warn you though, we weren’t expecting you to be in Dublin so soon. And as you can see, we still have a few snags we’re sorting out right now.’

No sooner are the words out of my mouth than a power drill goes off in the background, which I practically have to shout to be heard over.

‘But you know we’re pretty much on schedule,’ I half yell at him over the racket, ‘I mean … obviously … give or take just a few last minute odds and ends round the place. Rest assured though, I’m pretty confident that we’ll be ready in plenty of time …’

‘Chloe?’ Rob interrupts, as the din from the power drill dies down.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re starting to sound nervous. Should I be worried?’

‘Oh, well, you know!’ I say in a voice that’s approximately half an octave higher than normal. ‘We’re just all a bit pressured round here today, what with builders and everything … and of course, if we’d known you were coming, then it goes without saying we’d have been …’

‘You think I haven’t seen the inside of a hotel that’s overrun with builders before?’

‘No, course not, I just meant that … well, we are two weeks from opening and I’d hate you to think we weren’t going to be ready in time, because you know, we’re all completely confident …’

‘Well, then. In that case, it seems my reputation as a complete bastard has gone before me,’ Rob says dryly, mouth twitching down at the corners. ‘I’m not here to fire hard-working staff because you’re all working flat out on last minute snags.’

Okay, there is just no fecking response to that. So I just stand there, casting around wildly for some change of subject.

‘Well, you’ll be delighted to know I can’t even stay for long, actually,’ he says with a half-smile, like he’s actually enjoying my discomfort. ‘I’m actually en route back to London.’

‘Oh?’ I ask stupidly. ‘You mean, you’re not going to be around here for a few days, at least …?’

‘Not this time, I’m afraid. I’ve been in Milan since yesterday you see, and just happened to have a chink of time between flight connections today, so I arranged to catch my flight back to London from here. I wanted to see for myself just how the place is shaping up.’

‘Well … in that case, let me give you the full tour.’

‘Lead the way.’

You’re in control here, Chloe, don’t forget that, I tell myself firmly. And yes, so maybe this is a work-in-progress and maybe there’s a pile of tweaks and snags that we’re still working through. Like the coffee tables we ordered still haven’t arrived for the drawing room yet. Plus the fact that the plumbers are still working on the bathroom fittings, in at least three of the en-suites upstairs. And the electricians, who still haven’t quite finished yet, have left so many wires and cross cables strewn across the floor of the dining room, it looks like someone spilt ten plates of spaghetti in there.

I could go on and on, but come on, it’s a brand new hotel and we don’t even open for another two weeks yet! Surely even as notorious a perfectionist as Rob McFayden has to make allowances here? It will all come together in time. Because it just has to. It’s a good, sobering thought, and the more I keep telling myself that, the more I actually believe it.

Wordlessly, like he’s on a very tight schedule, he strides a few paces ahead of me as we make our way from the elegant hallway where Reception is, to the lounge area just on the left. It’s an old drawing room that our interior design team have worked wonders on. They’ve completely converted it from a slightly cold and forbidding Georgian reception room into a relaxed, warm and welcoming space, with a huge open fireplace, bookcases stuffed with leather-bound books and a stunning Louise Kennedy chandelier that never fails to take my breath away. The furniture is fabulous too, sofas covered in gorgeous lavender damask fabric, long cream silk cushions and curtains to match and tastefully chosen paintings dotting the walls. The designers really have thought of everything; even the fabrics have been carefully covered in protective plastic, till the builders finally leave us in peace.

The Lavender Room, as we’ve taken to calling it and I’m bloody proud of what we’ve done here; it’s elegant and graceful, yet so comfortable and inviting too; the kind of place designed to chill out in. Just perfect for the clientele we’re hoping to attract. An awful lot of work went into it, but instead of having a good, thorough nose around, Rob just strides around the perimeter, checks the view from the window, plonks down on one of the sofas, as though testing it for squidginess, and then is straight back up on his feet again. Like he’s seen all he wants to and is anxious to move on. Fast.

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