‘You should call her while you’re here,’ I say. ‘And tell her you’ll see her when you’re back.’
He raises an eyebrow and I realise that I’ve overstepped the mark. But then he says I’m probably right, he just hates dealing with family stuff.
‘Is your dad’s health any better?’ I ask.
‘He’s not any worse,’ says Ivo. ‘I don’t know if he’ll improve much, to be honest.’
I feel like he wants to add that he doesn’t care either, but he’s afraid of my disapproval.
He signals the waitress and orders himself another drink (gin and tonic, as I thought) and asks if I’d like anything.
I shake my head.
‘Another coffee, perhaps?’
‘No thanks.’
‘You’re remarkably disciplined,’ he says.
I think of my chaotic life and snort.
‘You are,’ he protests. ‘You can make a decision and stick to it. Whereas I’m forever wondering if I’ve done the right thing.’
I’m thinking how wrong he is and then I suddenly realise that he’s right. When I definitely decide on something, I do stick to it. Which is why I’m still driving, despite Dave’s objections. And why I’m still with him, even though he broke my heart. But Ivo is wrong to think I don’t wonder if I’ve done the right thing. I’m always wondering about that. Not about the driving. And not about Dave. Well . . . I take a moment to consider the Dave situation, which is, after all, inextricably linked with the driving situation. I want both to work out, but at the moment it seems I can only have one or the other. So does the fact that I’ve chosen driving mean that deep down I don’t want to be with Dave? No matter what I say to myself?
‘I don’t mean to bore you with my problems.’ Ivo’s voice brings me back to the here and now.
‘You’re not,’ I say. ‘I was just processing what you said about me. You’re right in some ways about me sticking to decisions, but I don’t know how good that is in the long run. Or if it’s because deep down I’m a stubborn cow.’
‘Don’t call yourself names.’ He smiles at me.
‘Dave calls me a stubborn cow sometimes,’ I tell him. ‘And he’s probably right.’
‘Stubbornness can be a strength,’ says Ivo. ‘A weakness too, I admit. But maybe women should be a bit more stubborn sometimes.’ He looks doubtful for a moment. ‘Or maybe not. Maybe that’s why Lizzy and I lock horns so much.’
‘She sounds like a really lovely person.’
‘She is.’ There’s warmth in Ivo’s voice. ‘And she was right to make me come home, even though I didn’t want to. I guess she got all the caring and sharing genes. Sadly, I inherited all of Dad’s worst characteristics.’
‘Even if you did, you don’t have to turn out like him,’ I say.
Ivo stares into his gin and tonic for a moment before looking at me. All of his successful-businessman veneer has been stripped away and there’s a vulnerability in his eyes I’ve never seen before. ‘I’m terrified I will one day,’ he admits.
‘You won’t.’ I resist the temptation to put my arm around him to reassure him. That would be stepping even further over the mark. ‘You might be his son, but having the same DNA doesn’t mean you’re the same person.’
‘Thanks.’ He takes a sip of his G&T and then puts it back on the table. ‘I shouldn’t drink this. It makes me self-obsessed.’
‘And I shouldn’t drink coffee because it makes me meddle in things I’ve no business being involved in.’ I stand up. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Stay for another couple of minutes,’ says Ivo. ‘I don’t want to go up to my room yet, and I’d rather not be alone.’
It’s a command. He’s my boss.
And he realises it too.
‘Christ, I’m such an arse,’ he says. ‘Ordering you around. I’m sorry, Roxy. We should both go. I’ve had enough to drink. I’m getting totally maudlin here.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say.
‘It’s not fine at all,’ says Ivo.
He stands up too.
We take the stairs side by side in silence. We don’t say anything as we walk along the corridor to our rooms. I stop at mine and take my key card out of my bag. I’m aware that Ivo is close to me. I can smell his aftershave again.
‘Goodnight,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes.’ Ivo hesitates.
There’s a ripple between us. I can feel it. Something drawing us together. And it’s growing stronger. I tap the card against the door lock. The light goes green. Ivo is right behind me. I can sense the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his breath. I can feel my own heart beating faster too.
And then my phone beeps with a message alert. Ivo steps back. I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
‘That’ll be Dave.’ I step into the room and turn towards him. ‘Goodnight, Mr Lehane.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs McMenamin,’ he says.
I go inside and close the door behind me.
Although I told Ivo the beep was from Dave, I actually had no idea who had messaged me. But as it turns out, it is my husband, asking how things have gone. I can’t answer it yet. I feel as though my treachery will be transmitted through the keypad. As though Dave will be able to tell, regardless of what I type, that what was going through my head at the moment my door clicked open was the hope that Ivo Lehane would follow me inside. At that moment, I wanted him to. I wanted it more than anything. Despite everything I’ve said to Dave about never hurting him as he hurt me, I would have let Ivo in. I’ve completely lost the moral high ground. I’m burning with shame.
I’m lucky my husband has saved me from myself.
I slip out of my shoes, sit on the ottoman at the end of the bed and massage my aching feet before calling him.
‘It’s very posh here,’ I say, and I’m shocked at how calm my voice is. ‘I’m not sure how comfortable I feel with this level of poshness, to tell you the truth.’
‘Make the most of it,’ Dave says. ‘Order room service.’
‘It’s a bit late for that.’
Besides, it was another sort of room service I was thinking about.
‘What time are you heading off in the morning?’ he asks.
‘About seven.’
‘You’ll be knackered.’
‘Ah, it’s OK. I’m going to bed shortly.’
‘I don’t like you being away from home.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ That’s a lie. I’m not sorry at all. Because even though I nearly made the biggest mistake of my life a few minutes ago, I’m enjoying being away. I’m enjoying staying in a gorgeous hotel. I’m enjoying somebody calling me a professional. Giving me credit for doing a good job.
Debs and I have talked about compartmentalisation before. How men can do it so easily. How they can put their personal feelings or problems to one side and get on with other stuff. How women find that more difficult. But I am a woman in a man’s world. So I can compartmentalise too.
‘You’re my wife and I love you,’ Dave says. ‘I want you here, not holed up in some hotel in Cork.’
‘I’ll be home tomorrow.’
‘We’ll go out,’ says Dave. ‘It’s steak and pie night down the road.’
Our local pub does a variety of meal nights. Mexican. Indian. Traditional fish and chips. Steak and pie is one of our favourites.
‘Great,’ I say, although going out means asking someone to babysit the children, and I can’t do that when I’ve been away for two days. But I’m not saying that to Dave now.
‘Sleep tight,’ he says.
‘You too.’
I get undressed, folding my skirt and T-shirt and cleaning the muddy heels of my shoes before placing them back in my overnight case. Then I put on the oversize robe I’ve taken from the bathroom. I feel a bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman , in the scene where she’s wandering around Richard Gere’s hotel suite. Though this is just a room. And there’s only me in it.
I wait
for a knock at the door.
But it doesn’t come.
I’m such a fool.
Chapter 23
I wake up having slept better than I’ve done in months. I expected to be tossing and turning all night, but instead I fell asleep within seconds of my head hitting the pillow. My sleep was so deep that even if Ivo Lehane had banged on the door to be let in for a night of rampant sex (revenge or otherwise), I don’t think I would have heard him.
I’m unsure what has me feeling so chirpy this morning, but after my shower I head downstairs. It’s not clear if breakfast is included in my reservation, but I’m not looking for much, just some coffee and toast, although when I see the extent of the buffet available, I reassess my priorities and have some of the fresh fruit as well. And a mini muffin. I can’t help it. It looks so enticing. Also, it’s some kind of organic, bran-based muffin, therefore it must be healthy! There’s no sign of Ivo. Maybe he’s having breakfast in his room, because even when I’ve finished mine, he doesn’t appear. I gather my things and wait for him in reception.
He emerges from the lift at exactly the appointed time, suave and businesslike again in his tailored suit, pulling his case behind him.
‘Sleep well?’ he asks cheerfully.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Me too. It must be the country air.’ He smiles at me, then goes to reception and checks us out.
The valet – a different man from yesterday – appears with the car keys and I see that he’s left the Merc outside the door. He insists on putting Ivo’s case in the boot and holds the passenger door open, clearly expecting me to get in and a bit surprised when it’s Ivo who does. He apologises as he hands me the keys and I smile at him and say no problem. Because it isn’t.
It’s still dark as we set off; a more profound darkness than in Dublin, where the artificial light from offices, houses and street lights never allows it to be totally black.
‘Music?’ I ask, but Ivo says he’s not good with sound in the early morning and would prefer silence.
So for the first thirty minutes that’s what he gets. Then his phone rings and he starts talking in French again. Animated French rather than the more seductive tones he used before. I wonder if he and Annabel are having a row. Perhaps he’s breaking up with her in the car. Dad once told me about a woman who asked her husband for a divorce while he was driving them to a wedding.
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Dad. ‘Then he told me to stop the car and got out. He told her she could go to the goddam wedding on her own, that he’d never wanted to go in the first place, and that he was glad to be rid of her.’
I wonder where she is now. How the divorce turned out for them.
Ivo’s tone isn’t angry, though. It’s crisp and businesslike. Maybe it’s not Annabel after all.
And then, suddenly, softer and gentler: ‘ Je t’aime .’
Everyone knows je t’aime . Even those of us who can’t speak French.
It’s the language of love, after all.
The sky is lighter as I take the slip road that leads to Limerick. There’s an open-backed pickup truck ahead of me, laden with tractor tyres and bales of hay that leave a steady stream of wisps in their wake. I like seeing bales of hay on trucks. It reminds me that, even though I love living in the city, there’s another world not that far away.
I’m not sure at what point I realise something’s going to happen. I think it’s before it actually does. Because I’ve allowed the gap between me and the truck to widen slightly and that means I clearly see the moment the back panel drops down and the tyres begin to roll out onto the road ahead of me. They’re big and black and coming straight for the Merc, but I’ve already checked for oncoming traffic, and even though there’s a double white line in the centre of the road, I move across and push down hard on the accelerator. A tractor tyre passes within centimetres of the passenger side as I swerve back in front of the truck at the same time as a blue Ford Kuga approaches. He’s flashing his headlights at me in annoyance, but then I register him braking hard to avoid the tractor tyre that’s now in the middle of the road, before careering onto the verge and into the steel barrier.
‘God Almighty!’ Ivo is clutching the door handle. ‘That was a close shave.’
I stop the car and get out. So does Ivo. I glance at the Merc but don’t see any damage. The Kuga doesn’t seem badly damaged either, but the airbags have deployed and people are already hurrying over to see if the occupants need assistance.
‘Will I call the police?’ Ivo is beside me.
‘Somebody already has.’ I can hear the sound of a siren in the distance and look around me. I don’t yet see a Garda car, but there are at least half a dozen other cars stopped on the road, which is littered with tyres. One has rolled to the verge behind the Merc. I shudder to think how close it came to hitting us. And I don’t want to think about what might have happened if it had.
Ivo is taking photos with his phone as he walks towards the truck. The driver is standing beside it, and they’re joined by the driver of a grey Volvo. Meanwhile, the occupants of the Kuga, a man and a woman, have got out of the car and are being looked after by others. My legs begin to shake. I flop back into the Merc and lean my head against the steering wheel. A minute later, Ivo returns.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Sure?’
I nod again.
‘The police are on their way.’ He’s stating the obvious. The siren is even louder now. ‘Obviously the truck driver is shocked, but he’s also worried. He should have secured those tyres.’
‘Why did the tailgate drop?’ I ask.
Ivo shrugs. ‘Dunno. I guess he’s going to get a few questions about that.’
‘Do you want to wait around for the police?’ I’m not sure if we should leave. We’re witnesses, I suppose, if there’s anything that needs to be explained, but if we hang around here for too long, Ivo might miss his flight.
He doesn’t have time to make a choice about that, because the Garda car arrives and suddenly they’re setting up cones and asking questions anyway, and I’m giving a statement to a man who looks barely old enough to be out of school let alone in charge of a major incident. Ivo then speaks to him and tells him he’s got photos, although they’re pretty much the same as the scene is now, and he gives his details to the young garda and next thing I know we’re being allowed to go. But we’ve spent nearly an hour at the side of the road and we’re going to be pushing it to get to the airport in time.
‘Are you certain you’re OK to drive?’ Ivo asks as he fastens his seat belt.
‘Of course.’ I’m not going to say otherwise, even though I’m still a bit shaken and the moment when the tyres came off the truck keeps replaying in my head.
I join the motorway and get us up to a few kilometres under the speed limit before engaging cruise control. I’m still trying to block out the image of the first tyre bouncing down from the truck and onto the road, heading straight for us. I tell myself that it might have hit the bonnet and simply leapt over the car, but I’m not convinced. I exhale slowly, trying to bring my heartbeat under control.
Ivo says nothing, but he turns on the audio system and pairs his phone with it. The soothing sounds of classical guitar music fill the car and I feel myself relax a little. Neither of us speaks until we reach the airport. Ivo’s flight should be closing around now, but I know now that when they announce a flight as ‘closing’, they actually mean they’ve started boarding. So if he hurries, he should make it. I get out of the car as I always do, even though he doesn’t wait for me to open the door but gets out himself.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Both for the driving, as always, and for your quick thinking earlier.’
‘I don’t know that I was thinking at all,’ I confess.
‘The very best way to think.’ He smiles. ‘I’m very glad you’re my driver. Even though I seem to be the client from hell, bringing nothing
but trouble.’
‘I’ve had a lot worse.’ I start to smile at him in return, but out of the blue my bottom lip starts to quiver and I have to blink away the tears that are filling my eyes.
He’s around to my side of the car in an instant, and before I know it his arm is around me.
‘Hey. Hey,’ he says. ‘You’re in shock. Give yourself a moment.’
I lean my forehead on his shoulder while he squeezes me and tells me to take my time.
‘I’m fine.’ I lift my head again. ‘It was just . . . just . . .’
‘Shock,’ he says again, and I nod.
He’s studying me, concern on his face.
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat a little more steadily.
‘All the same, I’m not sure you should drive.’
‘I got us here in one piece, didn’t I? I’m sure I can get home.’
‘But I was with you then,’ he says. ‘You’re on your own now and it’s a long way. I’d rather you weren’t by yourself.’
I feel the tears start up again, but this time I don’t blink because I don’t want them to fall. I’m a professional. I don’t cry on my clients’ shoulders. Usually.
‘This is so silly,’ I say. ‘I’m really not . . .’
He keeps holding me and I can hear the beat of his heart beneath his jacket and the comfort of his arms around me. I feel safe. Secure. I don’t want to break away. But I have to. Because he has to go.
‘Text me when you get home,’ he says. ‘So that I know you’re OK.’
‘I’ll be fine. And you’ll be in the air, I hope.’ This time I pull out of his hold and rub my eyes with the back of my hand.
‘Are you sure? Really sure?’
‘Absolutely. You’d better go,’ I tell him. ‘You don’t want to miss your plane.’
‘You’re more important than the plane,’ he says. He keeps his hands on my shoulders and he’s looking at me with concern.
‘I’m OK. Honestly.’
He smiles, then leans towards me. I move at exactly the same time so that the kiss that he clearly intended for my cheek ends up halfway between my lips and my chin.
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