‘Because I had holidays due to me that I didn’t take before,’ Deira replied.
‘Right.’ There was a pause before Gillian asked her where she was staying.
‘I’ll be travelling,’ said Deira.
‘With who?’
‘With whom, d’you mean?’ Deira couldn’t help herself.
‘Grammar Nazi,’ said Gill, as Deira had known she would. ‘Who are you going to France with? Where will you be travelling to?’
‘I’m on my own,’ said Deira. ‘I haven’t planned my itinerary yet.’
Gill’s next words were lost in a bellow from the ship’s horn.
‘What the hell was that?’ she asked.
‘The ship,’ replied Deira.
‘The . . . What ship?’
‘I’m on the ferry.’
‘But . . . I thought you were in the airport. Aren’t you flying to Paris?’
‘No. I’m sailing to Roscoff.’
‘Why on earth are you doing that?’
‘Why not?’
‘Nobody takes the ferry to France on their own.’
‘I have.’
‘Jesus, Deira, have you lost your mind?’ Although Gillian’s words were harsh, her tone had softened. ‘Look, I know it’s been hard for you this last while, but there’s no need to run away.’
‘I’m not running away,’ said Deira. ‘I’m going on holiday.’
‘Why didn’t you pick something nice, like a fortnight on the beach?’ demanded Gill. ‘I’m sure you could’ve got a lovely all-inclusive in the Maldives or somewhere. You can afford it, after all. Or can you?’ she added. ‘Are there money problems?’
‘I don’t like beach holidays,’ said Deira. Which was only partly true. She enjoyed a week on the beach with a few good books. But more inactivity than that did her head in. ‘And I’m fine for money.’ Which, despite the hiccup when the direct debit for the trip had hit her account, was currently true.
‘Have you heard from Gavin?’
Deira’s heartbeat quickened. ‘No. Should I have?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gill. ‘But let’s face it—’
‘I don’t want to talk about Gavin.’ Deira interrupted her. ‘I’m off on my holidays. He’s the last person I want to think about or talk about right now.’
‘You should have told me you were going,’ said Gill.
You would have tried to stop me. Deira didn’t say this out loud either.
‘I’ll message you when I’m there. I think the signal will drop on my phone soon. We’re nearly out at sea.’
‘Message me every day,’ said Gill.
‘Whenever I can,’ said Deira.
And she ended the call.
Back inside the ship, Deira visited the onboard shop, which was already crowded with people stocking up on French wines and special-offer spirits. Her only purchase was reflectors for the headlights of her car to redirect the beams for driving on the right-hand side of the road. Living it large, she murmured to herself as she paid for her solitary purchase. I really do know how to have fun!
She then made her way to the self-service restaurant, which was loud and noisy and, she realised, the last place she wanted to be. The sight of a mother feeding her tiny baby while at the same time spooning food into a toddler made her feel dizzy.
She turned away and almost bumped into a man carrying a tray laden with food.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘My fault.’
He nodded at her apology and kept walking.
Are you on your own? she wondered as her eyes followed him. Are you the one? He was attractive, though not memorable. He would be suitable enough. Wouldn’t he?
Stop, she said to herself. Just stop. She turned away and headed for the waiter-service restaurant at the other end of the ship. There was a queue here too, which was surprising until she realised that the frequent ferry travellers knew to get to the food as quickly as possible and leave the shopping and everything else until later.
When she finally reached the top of the queue, she asked the young Frenchwoman with a list in her hand if a table for one was possible.
‘We have nothing until eight o’clock, madam,’ she replied.
Deira wasn’t hungry, but eight o’clock was a long wait. Nevertheless, she supposed the self-service restaurant would probably be full for most of the evening. And she deserved something peaceful and quiet. So she booked her table and then went back to her cabin, where she made herself a cup of tea. Then she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes.
She was completely disoriented when she woke up, aware of the throbbing engines deep within the boat but not knowing what they were. It took a moment for everything to come back to her: the car, the drive, boarding the ferry – and the fact that she’d booked a table for eight o’clock. She looked at her watch. It was seven thirty.
She got up from the bed and used the small en suite bathroom to freshen up. Then she changed into the belted denim dress she’d put into her carry-on bag, glad that she’d added it at the last minute, because the white blouse she’d been wearing was crumpled from her unexpected siesta. She hadn’t bothered with extra shoes; her wedge sandals went well enough with the dress. She brushed her dark curly hair, added some peachy lip gloss and sprayed herself with Jo Malone Grapefruit.
She looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she’d done enough, or if she needed make-up to hide the pallor of her cheeks and the dark circles that had been under her eyes for the past couple of months. She’d never been much of a make-up person. She was always groomed and presentable for work, but she usually achieved her look with nothing more than mascara and tinted moisturiser to enhance her green eyes and high cheekbones. When they were younger, Gill had frequently told her that she’d drawn the lucky straw as far as looks were concerned. Not that you’re beautiful, she’d say (in case Deira got notions about herself), but there’s a bit of the wild Irish rose about you, what with your black hair and creamy complexion. No need to slap on anything more than a dollop of Nivea.
That had been then, of course, when neither of them had needed more than Nivea, and Gill had taken on the role of mother to her younger sister. She’d mothered their father and their brother too, even though Peter was five years older than her and didn’t really want anyone to mother him at all. But Gill was unyielding. She was the eldest girl and she was the one in charge. Deira had thought of her as overprotective when she was younger. Later on, she couldn’t help thinking that Gill was inherently bossy and had enjoyed being the one who ruled the roost. She’d certainly enjoyed interfering in Deira’s life, that was for sure.
Deira herself was ten when her mum passed away. Gill was fifteen, Peter nineteen. Peter had stayed at home for another year and had then headed off to London, where he’d got a job with one of the rail companies. It suited him perfectly – he’d always been mad about trains. They hadn’t seen him for a few years after he’d left, but when the budget airlines arrived with their cheaper fares, he was back and forward a couple of times a month. Then he married Sarah, the girl he’d been seeing for the best part of a year. He still returned to Ireland regularly with her and their children, Tyler and Sian, but although she’d seen him earlier in the year, Deira had been too busy with an upcoming exhibition to meet him on his last visit.
He’d texted her when he’d heard about Gavin. She’d texted back to say she was fine. He’d sent her a thumbs-up emoji in reply. She hadn’t heard from him since.
Deira didn’t get back to Galway very often herself, and when she did, she preferred to be in the city centre rather than the suburbs with Gill. However, her sister came to Dublin at least half a dozen times in the year, staying in Deira’s canalside mews every time. It had created tension between Deira and Gavin, who wanted to know why her relatives couldn’t stay in a hotel like normal people. Why did they think it was OK to impose on them whenever they came to town? Wasn’t Gill always boasting about how well her husband, Bob, was doing? At which point
he’d wink at Deira and she’d laugh, because Bob, like Deira and Gavin, worked in life and pensions. But unlike Gavin, who was on the board of directors, he was stuck at middle management, with no chance of moving any higher.
She sat down abruptly on the bed, overwhelmed by the memories. Back then, it had been her and Gavin against the world. At least, that was how it had felt. Now her world had shifted on its axis. And – whether she meant to show it or not – Gill was quietly smug about it all.
Deira stayed sitting for a moment, her eyes closed, trying hard not to cry. Then she stood up straight, ran the brush through her hair again and stepped out of the cabin.
She hadn’t come away to think about how things had been. She was here to think about how they were going to be. Even though, right now, there was nothing in her future to look forward to.
Chapter 4
Ringaskiddy to Roscoff: 580.2 km
When she arrived at the restaurant, Deira was led to a table for two near one of the large windows at the stern of the ship. The restaurant was nearly full, and most of the diners seemed to be excited Irish passengers on the outward leg of their holiday. Deira, accustomed to taking flights to wherever she wanted to go, hadn’t realised that so many people did it differently, even though she and Gavin had joked about reducing their carbon footprint when they’d first booked the trip. Now, as she took the menu the waiter offered her, she thought that perhaps she might travel this way more often.
The choices on the menu were appetising, although she couldn’t remember the last time she’d either eaten out or felt hungry. Which should, at least, have led to the upside of dramatic weight loss, except that avoiding food didn’t include avoiding two glasses of wine and a few squares of chocolate every night. Comfort eating. And drinking. And she didn’t care.
She decided to start with a salad from the buffet, followed by some seared tuna from the menu. The buffet itself was so extensive that some people seemed unable to limit their choices to one or two selections and had piled their plates with an assortment of meat, shellfish, salads, cheese and crusty bread. Deira could almost hear Gavin beside her, murmuring that a buffet always brought out the inherent savage in people. ‘Clustering around as though they’re never going to see food again,’ he would have said. Because that was what he always said when they were away together and facing a breakfast buffet. ‘It makes you lose all faith in humanity.’
She always agreed with him when he said that. She agreed with him on most things. It was why people said they were a great couple.
She put a little pot of prawns along with a small salad of green leaves on her plate. She brought it back to her table, then took her iPad from her bag. But although she opened it, she didn’t click on any of her favourite apps; instead she simply ate her food and stared into the distance.
It took her a moment or two to register that the waiter was walking towards her again, and for a brief moment she wondered, irrationally, if she’d taken too much from the buffet. And then she saw that there was a woman with him – tall and graceful, clearly older than Deira herself but with fine features that gave her an almost ageless appearance. Her silver-grey hair was cut in a fashionable mid-length style, and she was wearing what Deira had realised was almost the uniform of many of the older women on the ferry – a navy and white striped T-shirt, white chinos and espadrilles. A necklace of turquoise agates hung around her neck. She looked so stylish that Deira immediately assumed she was French.
‘This table,’ said the waiter.
‘Um – I booked a table for one,’ said Deira.
‘I’m afraid we don’t reserve tables for one person,’ said the waiter. ‘You’ll have to share.’
‘If I’m disturbing you . . .’ The woman’s voice was clear and measured, her accent Irish.
‘I . . . well . . . no . . .’ Deira moved her iPad out of the way.
‘Thank you.’ The woman sat down, and the waiter took her order for a glass of Chablis, then left them alone.
‘I apologise if I’m disturbing you,’ the woman said to Deira. ‘But it’s always the case on the ferry that they plonk people down beside you. Everyone wants to eat at the same time, you see.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Deira, who was saved from further conversation by the arrival of both the other woman’s glass of wine and her own main course.
She busied herself with her food and her iPad, opening the book she’d been reading for the past month. Normally she managed a book a fortnight, but lately she’d been finding it hard to concentrate, and even though this one was well written, her attention kept wandering after a few pages. It had been recommended to her by Tillie, who insisted that she needed something inspiring, and was about a woman who’d suffered a major trauma in her life and gone trekking through the Andes in an effort to find her inner self. Deira wasn’t sure if trauma was at the root of the more recent decisions she herself had made, although sitting in a good restaurant toying with excellent food said a lot about the inner self she still didn’t want to embrace. I’m shallow, she thought. Too concerned about material things and creature comforts. But – and she smiled involuntarily at the thought – a car thief. So a bit out-there after all.
The woman opposite was also reading; she’d taken an old copy of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises from her bag and had left it on the table while she’d gone to the buffet. Deira had written a critical analysis of Hemingway’s most famous work for the English literature module of first-year college exams, suggesting that his casual anti-Semitism was shocking, his characters unlikeable and his dialogue stilted, a critique that had caused her tutor to look at her appraisingly and remark that when she’d written her own masterpiece, she might be in a position to pan a classic twentieth-century novel. Deira had responded by telling him that she’d been asked to write a critical essay, not simply praise the damn book. Hemingway’s so-called masterpiece was full of male arrogance, she insisted, and she was entitled to say so.
The professor laughed then and told her that he liked people who could defend their own point of view, no matter how wrong it might be, so he would mark her highly for the essay even though he didn’t agree with a word of it. It had been a turning point for Deira at college – until she’d locked horns with him, she’d been self-effacing and timid. But that day she’d become a more positive person, one who could stand up for herself. She’d stayed that person for a long time. But now she’d suddenly lost her again. Perhaps, she thought, this trip was the start of getting her back.
The woman opposite turned the pages of the book as she ate, but when she’d finished her smoked salmon, she closed it and pushed it to one side. She looked up and caught Deira observing her.
‘It’s kind of awkward sitting opposite each other without saying a word, and yet so many of us who want tables to ourselves aren’t the kind of people to strike up friendships with random people,’ she observed. ‘However, it’s rude not to at least know who you’re sharing with. My name is Grace. Grace Garvey.’
‘Deira O’Brien.’
Observing Grace more closely, Deira estimated she was in her mid fifties, or perhaps slightly older. But her complexion was smooth and almost flawless and hinted at real beauty when she was younger. In fact, thought Deira, she was beautiful now.
‘Have you sailed on this ship before?’ Grace asked.
Deira shook her head. ‘My first time.’
‘I think this is my tenth, maybe even eleventh.’ Grace smiled. ‘We used to do it every second year when my children were younger.’
Deira glanced around as though Grace’s family would suddenly materialise.
‘I’m on my own this year,’ Grace said.
‘Me too.’
It was a relief to know she wasn’t the only person travelling solo. Seeing so many families on board was the most difficult part of the experience for Deira. Because if things had been different, if she’d been more sure of herself, she could have been part of the whole camping-trips-to-France scene. She could have been
the one hustling her children through the interminable queues of the self-service restaurant, hoping they wouldn’t make a scene; unlike the French parents, whose children seemed to have impeccable table manners, Deira knew that hers would have taken after both her and Gavin and been irrepressible. They wouldn’t have wanted to sit still in these more formal surroundings. They would have been a nuisance.
No. She held back that thought. Her children might have been boisterous, but they would never have been a nuisance. She’d have made sure of that.
‘Where are you heading afterwards?’ she asked Grace, who’d finished her salad but hadn’t opened her book again.
‘I’m driving to Cartagena in southern Spain.’
Deira looked at her in astonishment. ‘From Roscoff? On your own? That must be a couple of thousand kilometres at least.’
‘Seventeen hundred,’ said Grace. ‘Though I’ll be adding a few more with some detours. And you?’
‘My original plan was to drive to Paris. But I’ve been rethinking that over the last few hours. So I’m not entirely sure yet.’
‘I was always too terrified to drive in Paris,’ said Grace. ‘I should have tried it first when I was younger, but I didn’t, and now I doubt I ever will.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like a woman who could do anything she put her mind to,’ Deira said.
Grace smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘I guess if you’ve done this trip nearly a dozen times, you’re used to driving on the Continent,’ said Deira.
‘I’ve only driven there twice,’ Grace told her. ‘As a family, the furthest we travelled was to La Rochelle. My husband did most of the driving; he only trusted me behind the wheel every so often.’
Deira wasn’t sure what to say in reply. There had been an undercurrent to Grace’s tone that made her think the other woman might not always have appreciated being the passenger. She wondered where the husband was now, but she didn’t ask.
The waiter arrived with Grace’s main course (she’d also opted for the tuna) and cleared away Deira’s finished meal. Deira ordered coffee and then went back to the buffet to choose a dessert. Out of habit, she avoided the luscious chocolate tarts and selection of cheesecakes and instead went for a fruit salad and yoghurt.
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 3