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

by Jenny O'Brien

  Chapter Twenty

  Olif’s was packed, which for a wet blustery evening in February was a surprise. The snow had turned into rain over the afternoon turning the pristine white sheets into a sludgy mess only interspersed by the odd ambitious snowman. Tomorrow the railway station was due to open. Tomorrow Betws-y-Coed would return to normal and Mabel would have some decisions to make but tonight was hers and Derry’s. She’d made some decisions earlier as she’d watched enthralled as those old warped photographs had disintegrated to dust in the grate, now she needed to start implementing them.

  She didn’t want to end up stuffed in a bureau, her dreams smashed with nothing but her thoughts to keep her warm. She didn’t want to be like her dad trapped in a time warp under the weight of her mother’s memory. She wanted the dream to continue. The lovely fizz bubbling dream she felt with Derry and it was up to her to do something about it. Looking at his dark head bent over the wine list all she felt was the intense warmth of expectation. The future was theirs now. She’d make her way back to Dublin in her own good time to tell her dad and then she’d see about getting an annulment before returning to start a second honeymoon. Her smile broadened at the thought. There was nowhere in the marriage rulebooks that stated second honeymoons actually had to be with the same groom, and if there was she’d rewrite the bloody thing. Henry had had his fun: it was her turn. For now though she was just happy to bask in the warmth of his gaze as his eyes lifted to join hers.

  ‘What?’ His voice playful.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I just can’t believe I’m sitting here with you.’ She leant forward lowering her voice. ‘All the women are giving me daggers looks, wondering how someone like me could ever be having a meal with someone like you – you’re like something from a magazine.’

  ‘Ha, you’ve got it all wrong of course. Trust a woman to get the wrong end of the stick,’ his hand reaching across to where she was idly playing with her knife. ‘It’s you they’re looking at…’

  What, the women – I hope not!’

  ‘No silly – the men. Their eyes are on stalks.’ His gaze travelling over her simple midnight blue spaghetti strapped dress, ‘although it must be said that’s probably because everyone else is bundled up in jumpers and scarves while you’ve decided to dress for a day at the beach?’

  ‘It’s the only thing I had that was even half suitable. I did think I’d be sipping sangria at the moment in Grenada instead of…’

  ‘Instead of which you’re sipping it in some Welsh Tapas bar.’ He grinned, picking at the plate of mixed olives in the middle of the table. ‘If I’d known the honeymoon was in Spain,’ his eyes taking a break to travel around the sea of happy couples, ‘I’d still have chosen it – the food’s to die for!’

  ‘What; that bad,’ her laugh decrying her words.

  ‘Ha, very funny.’ His head back inside the menu. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving – I’m thinking about the Welsh Dragon Burger; all that chorizo and red devil cheese will go well with some bubbly.’

  ‘You were serious about the champagne then,’ her eyes travelling to the bouquet of the most beautiful roses that had been waiting for her on the corner of the table, not to mention the largest box of chocolates she’d ever seen outside a shop.

  ‘Too right,’ he said, raising his glass to touch hers. ‘To us my dear. To our happy ever after.’

  The walk home was beset with difficulties. Firstly there was the snow, although that in itself wasn’t the problem being as the flurries had stopped by early morning. But after a day of gentle traffic it had compacted down into the toughest slipperiest ice imaginable. With Derry, as solid as a tree trunk this wouldn’t have been so much of a problem if she hadn’t insisted on carrying both the bouquet and the box of chocolates, not the mention the rest of the champagne. They slipped and slid towards Pont y Pair Bridge his arm gripping her around her waist in an iron like grip only to pause to stare at the tumbling waters tracing their way from Swallow Falls. Betws-y-Coed was deserted by now. They stood enthralled by the views, by the silence - by each other.

  ‘It can’t get any better than this.’ She sighed, nestling her head against his shoulder. ‘The perfect end to a perfect day.’

  Placing the chocolates and champagne on the brick wall beside them he swivelled her around to face him his hands cradling her face before dipping his head for the longest sweetest kiss.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be quite the end you know; you are meant to be on your honeymoon.’

  ‘Mm, that’s true enough.’ She murmured against his cheek, her eyes glancing down at her beautiful roses now gently crushed between them. But the flowers didn’t matter. Their petals would curl and drop; their beauty shrivel and die while she still had Derry by her side. She’d pick the sweetest and tuck it between the leaves of her book, so the memory of this moment would remain fresh forever. Pressing a kiss against his freshly shaved cheek, a hint of aftershave lingering at the corners she pulled away slightly. ‘Sadly though you’re not.’

  Well that can easily be altered.’ He took the roses, and placed them on the ground between them before dropping down on bended knees.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes wide. ‘You’ll get soaked you daft thing.’

  ‘What’s a little snow between lovers?’

  ‘We’re not….’

  ‘I love you; you love me – what’s that if not lovers?’ He lifted up her hand and placed his forefinger against her wedding band. ‘Although I’d much rather propose without Henry’s ring on your finger…’

  ‘It’s not Henry’s ring, it’s my mother’s.’

  What?’ He paused, his eyes staring at the plain gold band.

  ‘Henry’s rings are in my bag, I wasn’t going to wear them after what…’ She took her hand away from his and, pulling off the ring placed it in his palm. ‘Please, I’d like to at least feel married to you before we…’ She felt her cheeks stain red despite the cold.

  ‘And so would I.’ His voice soft as a whisper. ‘Mabel, will you marry me?’

  All she saw were his eyes, those deep blue, almost black now in the darkness eyes and their expression. All she heard were his words, so different from the words said by Henry – so different and yet the same.

  ‘I will, I do.’ She replied as he twisted the ring back in place before kissing her palm.

  ‘Oh God, I think you’ll have to help me up, I’m glued to the snow.’ He laughed as she gave him a yank under his arm before pulling him back into the circle of her embrace. ‘A kiss I think to seal our troth, don’t you agree Mrs Yeats?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, his mouth seeking hers.

  I’m afraid there’s no cake, but we have champagne and chocolates.’ He laughed, his loud voice strange in the silent land around them as he dug around in his jacket pocket. ‘We even have a wedding photographer - that is if you don’t mind a wedding selfie?’

  Chapter Twenty One

  She didn’t turn around for that one last look. Feeling his eyes on her back as the train pulled out of the station was like a drug; a drug she was addicted to, a drug she had to resist, a drug she had no right to.

  She didn’t look back. Instead she pinned her eyes to the notice glued to the side of the carriage telling her in two languages not to put her feet on the seat. It was easier to try and work out which Welsh word matched its English equivalent than to allow her eyes to find his - if she looked back she’d go back. She’d jump off the train, even now as it was starting out of the station, but that wouldn’t matter. Nothing mattered except him. No, that wasn’t quite true she thought throwing her case on the rack. There was one other thing that mattered, the only other thing that mattered and the reason she was here now travelling away from him. But she’d be back. She’d do better than looking back. She’d be back.

  Settling down in the seat she was tempted to ignore the sign as her eyes fell on the spat out blobs of chewing gum splattering the floor. She couldn’t quite believe that just a few hours ago she’d been wrappe
d around Derry on Pont-y-Pair Bridge and here she was all alone in an empty carriage heading to Holyhead and then Dublin. Her mind wandered back to her wedding for, in truth last night was her wedding. She hadn’t felt married before but now, staring down at the dull faded metal of her mother’s ring she knew she’d never remove it. She had her ring, she had her rose bud pressed down amongst the pages of her book, the only thing she didn’t have was Derry. She might even still be with him now, snuggled up in bed with the gentle morning sunlight dappling its pretty glow on the blankets, Curly curled up at their feet. She might still be there if it hadn’t been for that selfie.

  She wanted to close her eyes and wish herself back in her bedroom with the heavy mahogany furniture and dull brown curtains and blankets, the weight of Derry’s arm around her shoulder but she couldn’t - the damage had been done and it was all her fault.

  She’d wanted to look her best for him. She’d wanted to look all those things she’d planned for her wedding night, but this time she wasn’t nervous or scared – this time it had felt so right. Rooting around in the bottom of her luggage she ignored the sexy lingerie pulling out a plain white nightdress instead. Henry had asked her to wear red for some reason and she’d ended up going shopping to the kind of shops she’d used to hurry past with averted eyes and a blush. But now she chose white, long pure, demure even despite the cheeky split up the side and the plunging neckline but as it had been a gift from Annie there was always going to be a catch.

  ‘Don’t be long darling, I’m just nipping out with Curly.’ Derry’s voice wafted up the stairs. Hurrying now she heaved a sigh at his consideration in leaving her for five minutes. She’d wanted to stay curled up on the sofa in front of the dying embers winking in the grate but the clock was ticking by and soon the night would be over. Throwing her clothes in a muddled heap on top of the bureau she slid the cool silk over her head before reaching for the matching negligee. It was then she noticed her phone, lying still and neglected. She hadn’t wanted to turn it on ever since that last message from Henry telling her what a great time he was having. It was full of him of course – the fabulous weather, the amazing food and wine, the great churches. Pressing the on button she realised that everything had always been about Henry, whereas with Derry it was all going to be about them. Standing there on the bridge his arm still around her he’d asked her for her phone number so she too could have the photo on her phone and now she wanted to see that image – their happiness forever captured. Tomorrow she was going to email it to Grainne and Libby. There was going to be no hidden memories lurking in the bottom of her sideboard thank you very much.

  Her hand tightened against the hard plastic of her phone. Twenty missed calls, and not one from Henry. Twenty missed calls some from numbers she recognised, others new to her and as she frowned down at the screen it rang again in her hand.

  ‘Mabel, thank God – I’ve been trying to get you since yesterday, we’ve all been trying but Derry’s phone must be out.’

  ‘Roar, just tell me what’s happened? It’s my dad isn’t it?’ She felt cold inside even as she felt the weight of Derry’s hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Your dad? No, your dad’s fine – It’s Henry. There’s been an accident.’

  Part Two

  Five years later

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Professor Derry Yates sat behind his desk lost in thought. For all his PA knew he was asleep, his handsome head bent over the notes in front of him. Placing another cup of tea by his hand she lifted the cold one and carefully retreated back to her outer office to frown at the pile of typing still yet to do. She wasn’t frowning at the typing but the sudden out of character stillness of her boss.

  But Derry wasn’t asleep. He’d been aware of her presence, her silent footsteps in the sensible lace ups she invariably wore to the office in the winter. He’d been aware of her subtle scent, a scent he’d smelt Monday to Friday for the last five years but, for the life of him couldn’t put a name to. He shifted his eyes slightly to take in the Royal Albert polka dot cup and saucer and matching side plate with the regulation digestive biscuits, but he ignored them just as he ignored the tea.

  He’d been appalled at first the way shy quiet Miss Turner had infiltrated and organised every minute of his time. If he’d known when the agency had sent him the eminently suitable temp that she’d make it her life’s mission to interfere in all aspects of his life he would have run a mile. But that would have been a mistake.

  She’d quickly rearranged the tiny pantry to make room for a table top fridge and microwave, which meant he never had to go hungry even if most of his meals were taken at his desk. She’d made other subtle changes too, changes he now took for granted but welcomed all the same - changes that eased the life of an overworked doctor who, frankly cared for nothing except his job and his dog, even now hidden away in the pantry. So his life was well organised, regimented and quite honestly he was bored to death. For months now he’d felt a dark restlessness take over his thoughts, that is when his brain wasn’t tied up on either lesson prep or his patients.

  He had no idea what he was looking for. He had no idea how to change things. All he knew was he was bored. As if to emphasise the point he reached out a hand to catch the wide yawn in his hand and in the process rattled the cup within its saucer. Perhaps saucers weren’t such a bad idea he thought on a smile, pushing the notes out of the way as he wiped up the splashes with a tissue from the ever full box in front of him – another one of Miss Turner’s initiatives and perhaps one of the more important ones for often the news he had to broach was not readily accepted or indeed acceptable to the majority of his patients.

  Taking off his glasses he placed them carefully on top of the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose before picking up his now cold toasted sandwich. His mouth munched automatically while he turned to the inside page to focus again on the name, a name now blurred around the edges but one he knew by heart. Next of kin, Mrs Mabel Marsden-Minns.

  What a bloody stupid name; to him she’d always be Mabel Frederick with her soft voice and even softer hands. He pushed away the half-finished sandwich and, returning his glasses to his nose started flicking through the notes, although he already knew the contents by heart. Fergus Frederick must be her father then. He hadn’t met him that one time he’d visited when he’d finally returned to Dublin and tracked her down, but as luck would have it he was about to. He regretted now with all his being the last minute fishing trip his friend and partner had decided to take leaving him to pick up the small pile of new referrals, this one being the last appointment at the end of a very long Thursday.

  Leaning back against his black leather chair he suddenly missed his old one. He missed the squeak just as he missed the well-worn arms with the bite marks and tears from when Curly Wurly was younger. There was nothing wrong with his state of the art ergonomically designed new one with its levers and buttons, the only thing it lacked was the fact it wasn’t his old one just like the only thing he missed was her.

  He remembered as if it was yesterday the last time they’d met, his picture of her indelibly etched across his brain for all eternity. She’d been showing him out of the manse one hand resting on the door jamb the other clutched to her throat in what? He still couldn’t make up his mind if it was regret, sadness or relief. Whatever the reason he could still see the pale gold band against the work reddened hand peeking out from under the old sweatshirt presumably pulled on with no thought for how it actually looked. Her hair, her beautiful hair scraped back into a ponytail. Her large dark eyes widened as her rose red mouth said the words he never wished her to say.

  Brushing his hand across his chin he could still hear those words reverberating around his head like an old stuck record. Good bye was such a horrible phrase. What in God’s name was good about saying good bye he’d like to know? He hadn’t let himself repeat such a final banal statement of an ending. He’d said nothing, if he remembered rightly. He’d driven away all the time squinting behi
nd the frames of his new glasses for that final picture of her standing in the doorway as still as if she’d been carved from stone.

  The day after life went on, or at least that’s what he’d tried to tell himself – the only problem being it was a life he didn’t want anymore – not without her.

  When the knock came it took him unawares, staring as he was out of the window at the rush hour traffic circling the park around St Stephen’s Green. Turning his head he was just in time to see her lead her father to the chair in front of the desk before settling herself down beside him, her hands resting sedately on her lap. The first thing he noticed was the ring, the second the hair, or lack of.

  Instead of the acres of hair he’d come to know nearly as well as his own was a short cap, which looked to his untrained eye as if it had been hacked off with a nail scissors – it suited her.

  She was different though, the years having stamped the ugly mark of time against her features. Her lovely skin now tinged with grey. Her wide expressive eyes clouded over and cradled in lines. Her still slim body, now sinewy, scrawny even wrapped as it was in a dress more suitable as a dishrag. But despite all this, despite everything beauty still lingered: it was there in the tilt of her head, in the curve of her cheek, in the angle of her foot as she stretched out her legs in front of her. She was different, diminished somehow but still the same. He loved her all the more for it.

  Making his way around the desk with outstretched hand his eyes were now trained on her dad. He took in the unhealthy pallor and the dark shadows under his eyes, although the hand when he shook it still had the firm grip of a much younger man.

  ‘Ah Reverend Frederick, a pleasure. I’m Professor Derry Yeats.’

  ‘Well er Professor Yeats…’

  ‘Call me Derry, sir.’ He pulled a wry smile, his eyes flickering across to her downcast head, suddenly realising what a shock this must have been. For all Miss Turner’s efficiencies she’d forgotten to send out letters to Dan’s new patients informing them of their change in consultant. ‘Professor makes me sound like a much older man.’ He turned slightly before continuing. ‘And Mabel, long time no see.’