Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  I’ve changed everything.

  Yet I’m not the one who slept with the next-door neighbour, am I?

  Chapter 21

  When I wake up the following morning, I slide gingerly out of bed so that I don’t disturb Dave, who’s still asleep. But by the time I’ve had my shower, he’s awake.

  ‘Ridiculous hour of the morning to be going out,’ he says.

  At least he’s talking to me. Last night he rolled away as soon as I climbed under the duvet.

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But needs must.’

  I’m waiting for him to say that there’s no need for me to be going out at all, but he doesn’t. Instead he checks that Mica and Tom will be going to Mum’s after school and staying the night with her.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve packed overnight bags for them. They’re very excited.’

  ‘Huh,’ says Dave.

  ‘And she loves the idea of having them,’ I add.

  ‘Huh,’ he says again.

  ‘I’m off now.’ I did my make-up in the bathroom and dressed while talking to him.

  ‘Drive safely,’ he says, and then goes into the bathroom himself and closes the door behind him.

  OK, he’s been cool, but at least he’s speaking to me, so that’s something. I tiptoe into the children’s rooms and kiss Tom goodbye – he doesn’t move – and then float a kiss in Mica’s direction. I know they’ll be happy at Mum’s, but I have to clamp down on the feeling that I’m putting myself and what I want to do ahead of them. And then I tell myself that it’s fine, they’ll hardly notice I’m not there. But what if something happens? What if they need me? What if Mum can’t cope? I know I’m being ridiculous. Mum raised Aidan and me. Mum dealt with the fallout from Dad’s relationship with Estelle. Mum is like me. She can cope with anything.

  And Dave is here. He can cope too.

  It’s dark outside. Obviously. It’s a quarter past six in the morning and the sun doesn’t rise for another hour. But I like the quiet of the early-morning roads under the yellow street lamps. I like driving past houses and seeing the square of light in the upstairs room that means someone is getting out of bed. I like wondering about their lives and what the day ahead holds for them. I like the bright green, orange and red of the traffic lights and the pearly white headlamps of an oncoming car. And I like my latest audio mix, Imelda May and Ciara Sidine singing about love and loss and everything in between.

  Although dawn is on the horizon, the sun still hasn’t risen by the time I arrive at Ivo’s hotel. I made good time, but he’s already in reception waiting for me. There’s no stubble on his face today; he’s as groomed as I’ve ever seen him. I think he may have had his navy suit pressed overnight, because it’s sharp and wrinkle-free. His shirt is crisp and white. He looks steely and businesslike but he gives me a wide smile.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he says. ‘I hope the drive down was OK?’

  ‘Couldn’t have been better.’ I smile back. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  He nods and follows me out to the Merc. This time he doesn’t wait for me to open the rear door but walks around to the passenger side and gets in himself. Are we back to a slightly less formal relationship? I hope so.

  ‘Silence or music?’ I put my usual question to him.

  ‘I’ve done everything I need to do for this meeting,’ he says. ‘Music would be nice.’

  I switch on the audio, forgetting that it’s still Imelda and Ciara, but when I offer to change it, he tells me he likes it, and so we travel for the first half-hour or so listening companionably.

  ‘Is that your sort of music?’ he asks when the mix finally ends.

  I wonder if saying yes will diminish me in his eyes. He’s probably some kind of classical buff himself. But except for the popular classics I played for him before, I haven’t a clue. So I admit to my country addiction and he laughs and tells me he’s a big Shania Twain fan.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Had a poster of her on my wall when I was younger,’ he confesses.

  I put on her greatest hits and when she starts belting out ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman’, we sing along while the sun rises behind us and we close in on our first stop of the day.

  Like in Arklow, the business premises where Ivo has his meeting is outside the town, but this time in an industrial estate. It’s grey and generic, with no surrounding fields of cows and no canopies of trees in the distance.

  ‘I’ll be an hour or so,’ says Ivo. ‘I’ll text you when I’m done.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  He nods and walks into the building while I turn the car around. The Rock of Cashel, with its gothic cathedral and tower, stands tall, looking over the town, and I head towards it. I find a small coffee shop that is busy with a mixture of townspeople and tourists, and before I go inside, I take a photograph of the Rock to upload to my Instagram account. Then I order a large cappuccino and a muffin (the deal of the day) and call Mum.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘I mean, you’re still all right for looking after the children tonight?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Dave hasn’t been in touch?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ She turns my words back on me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was an early start.’

  ‘I like being up early.’

  ‘Stay safe on the roads, Roxy,’ she says. ‘Your family needs you.’

  Is she trying to lay a guilt trip on me?

  ‘And have a great time,’ she adds.

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘I know. But have a good time anyway.’ Her voice is warmer.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Love you,’ she says.

  ‘Love you back.’

  I open Instagram and edit the Rock of Cashel photo. I’m getting good at this, and when I’m finished, it looks gloomier and more lowering than in real life, but also much more dramatic. After I’ve uploaded it, I also take a photo of my cappuccino and muffin and upload that too, captioning it ‘Driver’s Elevenses’. As I sip the coffee and nibble at the muffin (the first I’ve had in ages, and much sweeter than I’m used to lately), I scroll through my photos. Most of them are ones I’ve taken when I’ve been out on jobs, and are now part of my Instagram story, but over the last few weeks I’ve taken plenty of Tom and Mica that I never share. I love having photos of my children with me. It keeps them close.

  I have to scroll quite a way back to find the photograph of the boy with the football. It continues to nag at me that I might be looking at my half-brother, and I feel a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach when I zoom in on his face and think that he might have lived his entire life not knowing we exist. And then I remind myself that we don’t know he exists either, and that I’m probably making links where there aren’t any.

  And yet I still feel a pull towards him. I really do. Or maybe what I feel is a pull back to a time when everything in my life was simple and I never had to worry about anyone except myself.

  I close my photo stream and then send a message to Dave telling him I’m in Tipperary. The heart of the bog , I joke. Dave, like me, is a city person through and through. He doesn’t reply, which isn’t a big deal, because when he’s on a job he’s notorious for ignoring his phone.

  I finish the coffee, use the loo, and then walk towards the Rock. It’s seriously impressive and it’s easy to imagine how it would have been a major fortress hundreds of years ago. I wonder if I’ve time for a quick tour, but even as I’m studying one of the information leaflets, my phone rings. It’s Ivo Lehane saying that he’s ready to leave, so I abandon the Rock and walk quickly to the car.

  As I pull up outside the building, Ivo emerges alongside a tall woman with dark hair and impressively geeky glasses. I get out of the car and wait between the front and rear passenger doors while they exchange some last-minute pleasantries. He moves to the b
ack of the car and I’m about to open the rear door for him when he shrugs and says, ‘Front, if you don’t mind.’

  He gets in beside me.

  ‘Good meeting?’ I ask.

  ‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘I’m really excited about the vaccine they’re working on. It has great potential. My job is to make sure the finance is in place.’

  Hah! Vaccines. There you go, Dave McMenamin! Not that I truly believed for a second in the drug-smuggling theory, but still.

  ‘Was it your idea or theirs?’ I glance at him.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Coming here for meetings. Your idea or your company’s?’

  ‘We talked about it earlier in the year and I wasn’t that keen. But coming back and forward the last few weeks made me realise I was being stupid.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with Lizzy at all?’ I ask the question as ultra-casually as I can.

  ‘It took a week,’ he says. ‘She rang me and apologised.’

  ‘Does that make you feel better?’

  ‘It makes me feel like a bit of a dick, to be honest,’ he admits. ‘I shouldn’t have made you turn around. I was rude to her. And to you.’

  ‘You weren’t rude to me,’ I say. ‘You bought me coffee.’

  ‘I made you stop for coffee,’ he reminds me. ‘When you would’ve preferred to get home.’ He sighs. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I’m so good at the business stuff and so bad with people.’

  ‘You’re not bad with people.’ I join the motorway and speed up.

  ‘It’s generally accepted that I am,’ Ivo says. ‘I have a bit of a reputation for being cool and aloof at the company.’

  ‘If you know that, then why are you cool and aloof?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t feel that I am,’ he replies. ‘But I don’t . . . Well, I’m not that interested in what’s going on with people I work with. As long as they do the job, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘It’s lovely to be recognised for doing a good job,’ I say. ‘And I’m sure it’s a lot better to work in a place where people are nice to each other.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he says. ‘But then you’re in a people business. You have to be nice.’

  ‘I can be cool and aloof too,’ I tell him.

  ‘I doubt it.’ There’s amusement in his voice. ‘You’re too . . . too interested and too interesting to be cool.’

  ‘I promise you I can be,’ I tell him. ‘I could do this entire journey in complete aloofness if that’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Actually, no,’ says Ivo. ‘I like chatting to you.’

  ‘Or would you rather I put on some more music?’ I ask. ‘I also have Dolly Parton and Taylor Swift for your country delight.’

  He laughs. ‘Can we keep talking?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘I’ve done that already.’

  ‘I know that you’re married with two children,’ he says. ‘But tell me about your life and this job.’

  So I do. Obviously I leave out the bit about Dave sleeping with Julie Halpin. I also leave out the fact that he’s raging with me about driving Ivo. I do, however, tell him about Mum’s obsession with crocheting and her efforts at online dating.

  ‘She sounds great, your mum,’ says Ivo.

  ‘She is,’ I say. ‘She’s all about picking yourself up and starting over again. And not letting things get you down.’

  I think about sharing the story of Dad and Estelle with him, but that’s Mum’s private life, and no matter what, Ivo is still a client. So instead I say that she’d really like a paying job to go along with the octopussies and reading to patients at the hospice, but that she knows she’s too old.

  ‘And yet she’s still looking after me and my children,’ I say. ‘It’s definitely true that a mother’s work is never done.’

  ‘I guess you’ll be the same for yours,’ says Ivo.

  ‘Probably.’ I smile at him. ‘No, definitely.’

  ‘I might see if our company can offer some sponsorship for the octopussy knitting . . .’ He suddenly starts laughing and doesn’t stop, which makes me laugh too.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just that “octopussy knitting” is a phrase I never thought I’d say.’

  ‘I’m sure they’d be delighted with some sponsorship,’ I tell him when I stop laughing myself. ‘Thank you.’

  We continue in a companionable silence, and when I next glance at the satnav we’re not far from Cork. I say this to Ivo, who suggests we go straight to the hotel and check in.

  ‘I’ll be most of the afternoon at the plant,’ he says. ‘And I’m sure you could do with a bit of chill time. So you can go back to the hotel after dropping me. I’ll call you to pick me up – I’m having dinner with some of the management team there later this evening.’

  The hotel where we’re staying is the Castlemartyr Resort, which, from the website, seems pretty impressive. Like so many hotels now it has a golf course and a spa, and although I haven’t said anything to either Dave or Ivo, I’m hoping to spend a bit of time lying around the indoor pool. I’ve packed my swimsuit specially.

  Actually, it’s not surprising Dave is pissed at me. He’s never had a job that included staying in a five-star hotel.

  The first issue that arises when we arrive is that a valet asks for the car keys so that he can park the Merc. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to stay with the car or follow Ivo into the stately home building. He’s the one who takes charge, saying that we’re checking in but have to go out almost immediately and so would it be possible to leave the car nearby. The valet tells us not to worry, that we can move it to one side while we check in, and Ivo nods at him in an authoritative way.

  As I take Ivo’s bag out of the boot, I sense the valet looking at me and trying to figure out the relationship between us. But I don’t have much time for thinking, because Ivo has already taken his bag from me and is striding into the tiled foyer. I follow him, pulling my own somewhat tattier wheelie case behind me.

  Dave and I have stayed in resort hotels before – they’re great when you have kids – but never anywhere like this. There’s an air of quiet luxury about it that’s completely new to me, and as with the valet outside, I’m suddenly intimidated. Ivo isn’t, though. He walks up to the reception desk and begins to check us in.

  Which is when I have a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. What the hell am I doing here? Why on earth would Ivo Lehane want me to drive him to a place like this and spend the night? Dave might not have been right about the drug smuggling, but perhaps he is about everything else. And perhaps Mum is too. Maybe this is part of some kind of crazy seduction scene and I’m a fool not to have realised it before now. After all, nobody needs to treat their driver to a room in a lavish hotel. A normal businessman wouldn’t have bothered with a driver at all. He’d have taken trains or cabs or . . .

  ‘Here’s your key.’ Ivo turns and hands me the electronic card. ‘We’re both on the second floor.’

  What the hell is wrong with me? Ivo Lehane doesn’t want to seduce me. And I don’t want to be seduced. I’m not Dave, after all.

  Ivo leads the way to the lift. I’m conscious that we’re standing shoulder to shoulder in the confined space. I can smell his warm, spicy aftershave. I wonder if he recognises the perfume I’m wearing. Annabel’s perfume.

  The lift doors sigh open and we step out.

  ‘I’m two doors down from you.’ He stops outside my room and glances at his watch. ‘Is it OK to drop our bags and go? We’re a bit tight for time now.’

  I nod wordlessly, then unlock the door and step into the room.

  Bloody hell.

  It’s amazing.

  The carpet is so thick I’m literally sinking into it with every step. The room is decorated in shades of cream and gold and there’s an enormous king-sized bed with a matching coverlet and ottoman at the foot. There are fresh flowers on a mahogany table beside the full-length window, and the door to th
e bathroom reveals something Dave would be proud of – marble walls and floors, a double sink and an impressive-looking shower.

  This is how the other half live.

  And just for today, I, Roxy McMenamin, am living it with them.

  I’m Cinderella, although I have to remind myself that I’m actually the coach driver, not the princess.

  There’s a knock at my bedroom door and my heart does a backwards flip.

  I hurry out and Ivo is standing there.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  ‘Just a sec.’ I close the door in his face and use the bathroom. The soap is lovely and frothy, the towels soft and fluffy.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I say as I step out into the corridor again.

  The valet appears from nowhere when we reach the reception area and hands me the keys of the Merc. The car is parked a few metres from the entrance, and for a moment I almost forget to open the door for Ivo. Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered. He is already on the way towards opening it himself before hanging back and waiting for me to do it.

  ‘Is your room all right?’ he asks as soon as we’ve moved away.

  ‘It’s amazing.’ I glance at him. ‘I’m not sure you should be paying for it.’

  ‘Huh?’ He turns to me. ‘I’d hardly expect you to pay for it given I’m dragging you down here.’

  ‘Not dragging,’ I say. ‘You’re my client. So really, the cost of the hotel room should be part of my expenses. Like petrol.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says.

  ‘Or perhaps I should be somewhere a little less . . .’

  ‘Less what?’

  ‘It’s very luxurious,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a nice hotel,’ he admits. ‘But I have a rule about staying in hotels. They have to be at least as good as my apartment. Which, being honest with you, is pretty nice.’

  ‘I like the bathrooms to be as good as the one I have at home,’ I say. ‘Which is a lot to live up to because Dave’s a bathroom maestro.’

  Ivo laughs. ‘I hope this one is up to scratch.’

  ‘More than,’ I assure him. ‘The whole place is lovely. And I have to admit that the room is absolutely amazing.’