Unhappy Ever After Girl (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 3)

by Jenny O'Brien

‘Oh, I don’t know. I can always find a use for a good nurse.’ He grinned. ‘So how are you at massage?’

  ‘Terrible - and it’s not in my contract.’

  ‘Shame!’

  He threaded his hand through her arm as they followed the trail left by other hardy dog walkers and bread buyers and slushed their way to Pont y Pair Bridge. Leaning against the granite wall they watched the heaving waters battering the rocks below before lifting their eyes to the snow tipped trees.

  ‘What a shame it couldn’t have been over Christmas, and with the children back at school.’

  He gave her a brief hug, his arm having shifted from her arm to her shoulders and left it there. ‘What, you think they’ll be letting them go to school in this lot.’ He laughed, his voice startling a lone blackbird in the trees ahead. ‘Give it an hour and they’ll be out in force with homemade sledges they’ve cobbled together from their mam’s back door: their tummies heaving under the weight of their breakfast, their pockets stuffed with nicked carrots and potatoes from the vegetable rack for the snowman’s nose and eyes.’

  She joined in his laughter, all the while conscious of the weight of his arm. ‘Was that what you did, you and your sister: scavenge through the rubbish to build sledges and snowmen?’

  ‘And you didn’t?’ He paused, putting a finger to lift her chin. ‘Don’t tell me you were one of those spoilt brats with money thrown at them? We had to make do, and I’m all the better for it.’

  She managed to shake free of his hand but was forced to stay where she was his grip having tightened.

  ‘No, I’m not telling you that, I’m an only child or had you forgotten? There was no automatic friend to play with, and even if there was vicars aren’t known for their wealth. Everything was either second-hand or hand-me-downs,’ her eyes staring into the middle distance. ‘I never had a new coat, although that wasn’t important. I never had a sledge; second-hand, homemade or top of the range with whistles and bells, but I wasn’t worried about that,’ her eyes moving back to his but only fleetingly. ‘There was this doll in the window of Switzer’s – I can still see her now,’ her eyes squeezed shut in memory. ‘She was one of those china ones with an old style deep blue velvet dress and a little Embroidery Anglaise collar and cuffs. I can even remember how her eyes matched the colour of her dress and the way her blond hair was curled into ringlets.’ She let out a little laugh, tucking her hands in her pockets.’ I don’t know why I told you all that; I haven’t thought about it in years.’

  ‘Oh, people tell their doctor all sorts of things.’

  ‘The one problem being you’re not my doctor.’

  ‘I could be.’

  The words hung in the air between them like a tight rope stretched taut; neither brave enough to take that first step. They’d known it was coming ever since he’d bellowed at her from the doorstep. They’d known it was coming: not when or how but like any other bitter sweet surprise there was good and there was bad. She liked him, she more than liked him – she was married; she was still married.

  ‘That’s a bit quick isn’t it; we’ve only known each other a couple of days?’

  ‘I would say it was love at first sight,’ he carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘But it obviously wasn’t.’ He leant away from her and fixed the end of her scarf into the neck of her coat where it had loosened. ‘I’m not even sure what I feel for you, if in truth anything. I can’t even put it into words and you probably wouldn’t want me to.’

  ‘It’s not really the time to be thinking of a new relationship so soon after my wedding to another man,’ her voice dry.

  But he ignored her interruption. ‘I haven’t been in a relationship for months, years even. After Claudette there was work and then, when my eyesight finally decided to do the dirty all my concentration was needed to just keep pace with normal everyday life. I had to give up driving, which was the first thing to go, but I couldn’t risk injuring someone because of my own stupidity now could I? Not being able to see to operate came next and then not being able to read – The two final straws that took me to see an ophthalmic surgeon. The operation, of course wasn’t going to be straightforward. As I was born with the things there was no guarantee that removing them would make any difference.’ He looked at her briefly. ‘Sorry, you probably know more about it than me – and then that blasted infection, I really thought that was the end of the road when you exploded on my doorstep from nowhere like some merciful guardian angel.’ He cradled her face within both hands, their noses nearly touching. ‘Are you my guardian angel Mabel? It feels like you are. It feels… You feel like champagne that’s somehow sneaked into my blood vessels making them fizz. It’s not very prosaic, but then I was always much better at maths and sciences than English Lit. I may be in love with you, that is if love feels like champagne bubbles welling up inside so I’m fit to burst at the very sound of your voice…’

  ‘You’re sure you’re not having a cardiac arrest? What’s your pulse rate?’

  ‘Why you little…’ He almost dragged her off her feet towards him, his lips searching hers. This wasn’t the first sweet kiss between two romantic souls entwined by fate. This was quick and bruising, no sooner started than abruptly over as they both pulled back their eyes wary, their hearts thumping in unison to the beat of some long forgotten rhythm.

  ‘I can’t deal with this at the moment.’ She stumbled away and, hand to her throbbing lips staggered the last few steps to the shops opposite.

  Pushing the door of The Spar, she sought refuge in the surprisingly busy shop. She knew he’d followed her. She’d heard his heavy sighing breath and the way his size thirteens had squelched along in her footsteps, but she ignored him. Picking up one of the wicker shopping baskets her eyes determinedly focused on the task in hand even as her ears strained for the muffled greetings across the store.

  ‘Morning Derry, haven’t seen you for a while – Sorry to hear about your uncle and all, wrong time of the year for fishing though.’

  Selecting a couple of golden delicious and dropping them into the bottom she took little regard for their fresh unblemished skin. Normally she’d have relished browsing the racks for that perfect piece of fruit; lifting them up to her nose as she inhaled their unique scent, but not today. Today she had more things on her mind than the different cultivars of apples, pears and oranges on display. Today she had more things on her mind than choosing the ripest, freshest produce from the bulging displays.

  She felt his eyes on her back where the hairs started to ruffle but she didn’t turn around or acknowledge his presence – that would need words and at the minute she couldn’t isolate a noun from a verb if her life depended on it. She couldn’t speak to him with the pressure of his lips still imprinted on her like some badge of ownership for indeed that’s what it had felt like: not an act of love or desire even, more an act of branding. A branding she’d have to give some serious thought to, especially in light of the pleasure it had given her - the colour rising in her cheeks at the memory. She hadn’t been kissed by many men before Henry, only a couple really – youths trying their technique out on the obliging prissy vicar’s daughter. Henry’s weak lipped pecks couldn’t really be included. He’d said he was old-fashioned, which at the time suited her right down to the ground for wasn’t that just what she was herself. He wasn’t old-fashioned at all, she thought slamming a bag of spuds into the basket with little regard for the innocent fruit at the bottom. He just hadn’t fancied her enough.

  Heading for the rows and rows of neatly lined up dog food she tried to remember how she’d felt when she’d sat in the church realising just what a mess she’d made of everything, but she couldn’t. All she could focus on were his words and what she was going to do about them for; of course he wasn’t going to be happy with her answer. Whilst she hoped he wasn’t like Henry she was pretty sure if the opportunity arose he’d be the first in the queue to try and whittle her down. The most difficult question of all was whether he’d been genuine or whether thi
s was another effort in trying to get his leg over: a much more sophisticated effort than a couple of nights ago but one with probably a much higher success rate. She ignored the way her heart had leapt in her throat at the pressure of his lips; the way she’d leaned into the kiss her hands wanting to tangle themselves in his hair. She had to ignore the way he made her feel if she had any chance of keeping to her wedding vows – wedding vows that were already broken.

  Making a random choice of assorted cans in case all that chicken had turned Curly into Mr Doggy McFusspot she picked up a bag of dog biscuits only to find it taken out of her hands as he made his way to her side. She felt his eyes boring into her so she turned her head towards the bakery section. She wasn’t prepared to continue the conversation and certainly not here with the interest of what seemed like half of Betws surrounding them like a net.

  ‘Oggies for lunch?’ He asked, in a voice devoid of any inflection.

  ‘If they haven’t run out?’

  ‘Unlikely, they’re pretty much part of the staple diet in these parts. ‘Here, let me.’ He added, taking the basket from her and making his way to the glass topped counter that stored an assortment of savoury and sweet bakes.

  ‘A couple of oggies and…’ Raising his head from the counter managed to catch her eye, ‘dark or milk?’

  ‘Either, but dark preferably.’

  ‘Thank God we agree about something,’ he said, but under his breath, before turning his attention to the lady serving him. ‘And a couple of your dark chocolate brownies as well please.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  He’d made a complete mess of it. There were no other words for it – well there were, but not words he’d be prepared for his mother to read and, as she followed him on Twitter, not to mention Facebook he had to make sure it was clean. Carrying the basket to the counter he unloaded the messages before throwing a smile to the woman behind the counter – he couldn’t remember her name; he could never remember her name, but he usually found a smile sufficed so smile he did.

  As she (the unnamed, but pretty salesperson) scanned his groceries his mind, with a will of its own thought about his mother even now heading back from her brief shopping sojourn in London. She might even drop in on him on her way back to catch the ferry, but she probably wouldn’t as he thought about the load of shopping she usually hauled back on one of her buying trips.

  Presenting his card with another smile he started packing the groceries away in the bags Mabel had handed him on her way to rescue Curly from the lamppost outside. With a bit of luck the rail tracks would still be unpassable until at least tomorrow so that left one more day to prove to Mabel he was genuine, and not just trying it on. He shouldn’t have kissed her, that’s for sure but she’d made him angry all of a sudden with her smart sassy remarks. Anger was no excuse and he’d make sure he asked permission again next time; if there ever was a next time that is.

  In the old days he’d never have done something as uncouth as launch himself at a girl without at least being sure she was agreeable to his advances, he mused pushing open the door. But these weren’t the old days, his eyes catching the dappled sunlight as it played havoc with the plaques of ice bordering the path. In the old days he’d never have paused to appreciate the simple beauty of what lay at his feet, in truth he wouldn’t have noticed it – now he noticed everything and everyone in a cacophony of sounds and colour. He noticed the scenery, down to the pile of black tinged slush turning the road into a glistening death-trap. He noticed the muted tones of the brickwork on the bridge and he noticed her.

  He noticed her; everything about her, even though he knew it off by heart. The way she hunched her shoulders slightly while she walked, her hands dug deep within her pockets, her head tilted as she chatted away to Curly tucked within the crook of her arm. Making his way across the road he also noticed the way she paused, albeit briefly before carrying on whatever doggy conversation she was having with the enthralled little beast. He’d obviously upset her just now and a little sliver of an idea formulated at the thought.

  She’d been hurt, she was still hurting and he’d made it worse – now was the time to make it better. He had a cunning plan – well not really. As a plan it was crap, but then again in a snowed in Betws where his resources were decidedly limited it would have to suffice.

  There wasn’t much they could do other than curl up on the sofa with Curly and watch a movie, or at least that’s what Mabel did. Derry would rather have all his teeth pulled, and that without anaesthetic too than watch Sleepless in Seattle again. With the wood burner blazing and the kettle on permanent boil he happily fetched and carried mugs, and logs while she tucked her feet underneath her, a box of tissues conveniently placed within grabbing distance. In between times he started going through his uncle’s papers, stacked neatly under the lid of the old apple wood bureau in the corner. It was mostly receipts and white-good guarantees, with a handful of chequebook stubs tied together with rubber bands and a pile of faded to yellow letters with the same loopy hand writing on the front.

  ‘If you need me to leave the room or anything?’ She asked, her gaze wandering away from the screen as he started removing the drawers underneath and working his way through bank statements.

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t expect to find anything out of the ordinary. It’s not as if my uncle had any secrets…’ His voice tailed off as he pulled out an envelope with some colour photographs.

  There were three photographs in total, all of the same girl: three old photographs with bent corners that told a story of their own. The first a picture of a wedding: a bride, a happy bride her face partially turned towards the photographer in surprise. The second, the same girl this time taken in a café; a tiered cake stand piled high with goodies just visible in the corner entwined fingers trailing against white linen. The last photograph was newer, or older as the woman, the same woman was now middle aged – her hair short, her face a myriad of lines her lips holding the same smile within their folds.

  Derry handed her the photos before standing up and adding a couple of logs to the wood burner.

  ‘She’s lovely, beautiful even – I thought you said he never married?’ Her voice questioning.

  ‘He didn’t. He always said he’d never marry until he met the right girl…’

  ‘But… the way she’s looking at…’

  ‘At what, the cameraman?’ He laughed drily. ‘My poor uncle,’ he added, raking his hand through his hair before heading to the drinks cabinet, full to the brim he noted with a frown of everything except whiskey. Selecting a couple of glasses he chose a bottle of sherry with a grimace and poured a couple of thimblefuls before handing her one.

  ‘To dear Uncle, you wily old fox you.’ He toasted, throwing his head and knocking it back before refilling his glass and sitting back down on the sofa, his glass briefly chinking against hers.

  ‘You know who she is, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I know who she is. She’s married; at least that’s what she is. Who she is is slightly more complex – she’s the wife of his business partner and best friend.’ He leant his head back and closed his eyes, the hand with the glass idly resting against the arm of the sofa. ‘In those days divorce would have been frowned upon so presumably they met in secret.’ He turned his head slightly so he could look at her. ‘Of all the things I thought I’d find, never this.’

  He watched her eyes widen, her face lose all colour the photographs falling from her fingers to scatter unseen on the rug at their feet. ‘She married the wrong man.’

  ‘People do, you know. People make mistakes; that’s what lawyers are for – to rectify them.’ He knelt down and picked up the photos before placing them back in the envelope. ‘She was at the funeral, I remember my mother saying how kind it was of her after all these years.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Going to do? I’m going to do nothing.’ Standing up and stretching he made his way back to the wood burner and, with a final look at the env
elope threw it in to dissolve into flames. ‘She’s best relegated to memory, there are too many people to be hurt by what they did – children, grandchildren. Sometimes it’s too late to rectify one’s mistakes.’ He rested his hand against the chimneybreast feeling the warmth pulse through his palm, his eyes glued to the flames below, the photographs now only a pile of grey dust – grey dust to be swept away tomorrow with the rest of the ash. ‘He was a good man, like a second father in a way. He should have been happily married with children of his own instead of wasting his life over here.’ He twisted around to face her, his eyes hooded under his thick brows. ‘I’d planned it all you know - I was going to woo you like some young romantic fool. I’d booked the restaurant, even down to the champagne ready on the table. I’d arranged roses,’ his eyes met hers, but only briefly. ‘Twelve long stemmed red roses; quite an achievement I’m sure you’ll gather in snowbound Betws; nigh on impossible excepting it’s Valentine’s Day next week! Twelve long stemmed roses and a box of the best chocolates the Spar had to offer.’

  ‘You didn’t have to…’

  ‘Yes I did,’ he drained the rest of his glass before resting it on the table. ‘I didn’t have to do anything; I don’t have to do anything. I wanted to do everything, and anything to take away the pain of your wedding.’ He raised his hand when she opened her mouth as if to interrupt. ‘No, if I stop now I won’t be able to continue. I need to say this. I need to apologise for earlier, although that’s not what this is all about. It was wrong of me to kiss you on the bridge. I’ve no excuses; I’m a grown man after all and I…’

  ‘I liked it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I liked it. In fact I’d like you to kiss me again.’ Lifting the sleeping dog and placing him on a cushion beside her she stood up and joined him in front of the fireplace her hand reaching up to touch his face, his eye lids, his hair.

  ‘Kiss me Derry: kiss me and make me forget.’