by Karen Swan
She leaned against the desk and checked the diary. There was only one more booking due to be checked in – a Ben Gilmore, flying in from Heathrow – then she could clock off for the day. She stared out of the window, impatient for him to show; she couldn’t leave till she’d booked him in, given him a key to the wash block and the temporary code that would release power to his pitch: even campers wanted charging stations these days. The booking said he’d be here at 4 p.m. but it was half after that now and she was desperate to get away. Bertie was holding the official briefing for tomorrow’s race at six this evening and she needed to be there. He’d be expecting her. It had been forty-eight hours since he’d surprised her – sneaking away by telling Shula he was going to check on some of the race signs that were being put up – and her longing was building again. She missed him desperately. It was always hard having to wait for their snatched moments but now that her father had gone, her loneliness, her feeling of being completely alone in this world, had multiplied exponentially. Her mother had officially retreated to her room since the reading of the will, Mrs Mac even having to bring her meals up there to her now, and Willow had been nowhere to be found either last time she’d popped in to the castle. Pip was straight back into the swing of things, of course: working all day and then hitting the pub in the evenings . . .
Distractedly, she played a game of solitaire on the computer. Lost. Tried again. Lost again.
‘Come on, come on, Gilmore, where are you?’ she murmured impatiently as the minutes passed, walking to the window and staring out of it till the windows fogged. She began to pace. Made another coffee. Paced some more.
She watched it grow dark outside, the athletes beginning to stream past the office in a steady file now, all making their way to Gallaloe’s village hall for the safety talk and briefing. Bertie had laid on coaches at all the main campsites out of town, given the woeful lack of public transport services.
Half five came and went, her patience with it. Five to six. Ten past. She felt demented. Enraged. Furious. Helpless.
It was quarter past when she had a brainwave. Without a car of one’s own, there was only one way in and out of this village. Quickly, she made a call and waited impatiently as it rang three times.
‘Seamus, hi, it’s Ottie.’ she said in a rush, the second he picked up.
‘Ottie, hello dere,’ the village taxi driver called back, a leisurely smile in his voice, static on the line. ‘How are ya?’
‘Yes, good, thanks.’
‘You’re busy down dere den. I’ve been op and down dat road a yours like a rat op a drainpipe today.’
‘Ha, yes . . . Seamus, listen, that’s what I was calling about actually – you didn’t happen to do an airport run earlier this afternoon, did you? I’ve got a booking that’s gone AWOL.’
‘Woy, yes, I’m jost back, in fact.’
‘It wasn’t a chap called Ben Gilmore, was it?’
‘Gilmore . . . Gilmore . . . Me memory’s not what it was, like. He was an American fella though, I can tell you that. Quiet sort. Didn’t have moch to say for hisself.’
‘American? Oh, I don’t know if that’s him.’ Ottie bit her lip. ‘I’ve just got he was flying in from Heathrow.’
‘Aye, from Heathrow, that’s right.’
Her ears pricked up hopefully. ‘Did he look like an elite runner?’
‘Looked damned hungry from where I wos sitting. Not a pick on him. These fellas would do well to make acquaintance with a good pie now and den.’
‘Sports kit? Trainers? Wind burn?’ They were easy to spot.
‘Nup. He was in a suit.’
Ottie heaved a sigh of despair. No one in a suit would have booked into a campsite. ‘No, that can’t be him.’ She bit her lip. Where the hell was her client? Had he seen the wild forecast and booked in to a B&B instead? She couldn’t imagine where though; everywhere with rooms in a five-mile radius had been booked for months now. Perhaps he’d missed the plane? Or just come to his senses about the madness of running a hundred-plus miles in a day and night? Maybe he was injured and hadn’t bothered to cancel? He better not have done, she thought darkly – she’d turned away six people already today.
‘He did ask me to drop him straight at the village hall.’
‘What?’ She felt something inside her snap.
‘Aye. Said he’d call me later to take him on to you. I’m going backs there in an hour, after I’ve had me tea.’
He was at the briefing? He’d gone straight there? Ottie felt her rage bloom. All this time she’d been sitting here, waiting to book him in and he hadn’t had the decency to ring ahead and let her know? ‘The bloody idiot!’ she exploded.
‘Did I do somet’ing wrong?’ Seamus asked, sounding alarmed.
Oh God. She dropped her head, pinching her temples between her fingers as she tried to gather herself. ‘No, Seamus, I’m sorry, no. You didn’t. I . . . I’m just furious with him. I’m supposed to be at the meeting too, that’s all. I’m stewarding tomorrow.’
‘Pah, what d’you want to be troubling yeself with dat meetin’ for? Yus been doing it long enough to know the score. Dese tings are for ole Bertie Moneyboots to puff up his chest and make he’self sound important to the newcomers. It’s an ego trip. He always says the same thing every year anyways: proper shoes, no gom, follow the flags, spare batteries for dem headtorches, bivvy packs, whistles and maps. Blah blah blah.’
Ottie closed her eyes, knowing he was right. She didn’t need to be there for the technical details – but he couldn’t possibly know why she really wanted to be at that meeting, and she could never tell. It was always the same, having to pretend that it meant nothing if she saw him in the street, or that it didn’t hurt if his wife reached over to muss up his hair during a drunken dinner with her folks. Everything had to be a secret, her entire life run as a charade, and most of the time she could just about do it; she could bear it well enough. But this wasn’t most of the time. This was the worst of times and she needed him, the man she loved.
She checked the clock on the wall, feeling desperate. Six twenty. It’d take her twenty minutes to get there from here; the track was bumpy and rough even mid-summer but this time of year, in this weather, it’d be like a slip-slide. If she was lucky, she’d be arriving just as everyone was leaving. No, it was already too late. Tonight’s precious opportunity to see him in plain sight – the race meeting an alibi for them both – had slipped from her grasp.
‘You’re right, Seamus,’ she said in a tight voice, reasserting self-control again. ‘I’m overreacting. Sorry. I just don’t want to let anyone down is all.’
‘As if ye could. Jost you put your feet up. I’ll finish me dinner then pick ‘im op and drop him down to ya in a bit. Don’t worry about a ting, pet.’
‘Thanks, Seamus.’
She hung up and dropped her head forwards, giving a small scream of frustration. Was the entire world against her? She had wanted only to glimpse him tonight, to maybe find a moment together in the loos or in his car. Was it really so much to ask? She had just needed to look into his eyes, to feel his hands in her hair. Something to keep her going, to keep the loneliness at bay. He was competing in the race tomorrow so she knew there’d be no midnight visits tonight and as pride made it a necessity for him to run his own course, she knew exactly how depleted he’d be for days afterwards too, Shula no doubt chomping at the bit to whisk him off to the Bahamas for a ‘proper rest’ and ‘a little winter sun before the Christmas rush’.
She flung herself back in the chair, agitated and upset, bitter tears sliding down her face again as she thought of Shula carelessly opening another bottle of wine, not even noticing her husband across the kitchen, turning away from him in bed each night, oblivious to what she had in him. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t even want him, she just wanted what he could give her: the lifestyle, the cachet, the jewels, the horses, the holidays . . .
And what did Ottie get? She didn’t care about things or stuff. She just wanted him and
she couldn’t even have that. She stared around her tiny office, seeing it as if for the first time – a converted animal pen set in a windswept field beside a remote beach. Was this really everything life had to offer her? It was a question that she kept trying to push away: she was in love, that alone made her one of the lucky ones, and yet she couldn’t help but notice that she was as trapped by it as she was freed. There were rarely impromptu nights at the Hare for her, in case Bertie called while she was out; and she never took up the offers for dinner that she sometimes got from the guys that camped here – adventurers, walkers, runners – for she had no interest in making Bertie jealous. It wasn’t like he’d chosen this love either – it had surprised and overtaken them both. How could either one of them have known that the offhand offer to repair a broken lock when her parents had been away would prove to be the cataclysmic event in both their lives? She’d never even thought about him in that way till he’d caught her mid-trip over her shoelace and they’d found themselves eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth . . . It made her shiver to remember it as they’d crossed that invisible line, their bodies tingling with the frisson of illicit attraction.
But if their love had started out as an accident, it had become a very deliberate secret and she, for one, was exhausted keeping it. Life was short, her father’s death at fifty-eight proved that. Surely they had to live for today and grab their tomorrows with both hands?
‘Hello?’ A voice outside, followed by a knock at the door, made her startle momentarily and she peered out of the window, just able to make out a couple in blue cagoules with a Yorkie shivering at the end of a lead. Ultra runners they weren’t. Hurriedly she brushed her tears away.
Yes, things had to change, she thought, as she opened the door and they looked up at her with hopeful eyes – and she would personally make sure they did.
***
Ottie had only just climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her hair when she heard the knock at the door. Her heart gave a little leap – he must have been driving fast! – and she quickly checked her appearance in the mirror; his concerned text – where had she been? – had transformed her mood and evening. Picking up her glass of red wine, she skittered out of the bedroom, making a dash to the front door and only slowing to a sashay as her hand reached for the handle.
‘Hey . . .’ she said seductively, the smile dying on her lips as she caught sight first of a pair of leather shoes. Bertie only ever wore suede brogues out here.
‘Hi. Are you Ottie Lorne?’
At the sound of the accent, her expression set harder than concrete.
‘Who’s asking?’ she asked, already knowing perfectly well who he was.
‘Ben Gilmore.’
‘Ben Gilmore,’ she repeated, making no move to say anything further. He didn’t look like a Ben Gilmore. She supposed she’d been expecting a wholesome smile and dark, swept-back hair, round eyes and a look of contented suburbia about him. A Netflix jock. Instead he was tall but rangy, with light-brown close-cropped hair and a lean, angled face. His eyes were sharp too, in shape but also, she sensed, perception for he had a quiet intensity about him. He looked exactly like the sort of person who’d consider running a hundred miles in the middle of winter a ‘good time’.
‘I’ve got a booking for four nights.’ And when she didn’t reply, he added: ‘At the campsite.’
She waited for a few seconds and then gave a look of surprise. ‘Oh yes, Mr Gilmore. We were expecting you.’
‘I went to the office but no one was there. Someone told me to try you over here.’
‘Someone told you to find me here?’ she echoed in surprise.
‘Yes. Couple with a dog.’
‘Ah yes, the Packards. Lovely couple. Cute dog.’
His brow puckered slightly, as though baffled to be given back these details. ‘Yes.’
‘Crackers, I think they said his name was.’
‘. . . Right. Well, anyway, if I could just get the paperwork sorted and whatever I need from you, I’ll pitch the tent. It’s going to be tricky enough getting it up in the dark with this wind.’
‘Yes.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘It’s a real shame you didn’t get here in the daylight.’
‘Yeah.’ He shifted his weight and she noticed the large red North Face duffel bag on the ground behind him, which belied the Brooks Brothers tailoring and revealed the true him. ‘Heathrow air traffic control was against me on that one.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Gilmore, but I was obliged to release your booking and I’m afraid we’re fully booked.’
He looked confused, no doubt because she’d delivered the bad news with a smile. ‘. . . I’m sorry, what?’
‘Yes. Check-in is by six o’clock latest at this time of year. As I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s a safety hazard to have people pitching tents in the dark.’
‘But I had a booking. I booked my pitch months ago,’ he insisted. ‘You can’t just give it away.’
‘Well, in accordance with our t and c’s,’ she said with infuriating politeness, ‘check-in must be completed by 6 p.m. or the reservation is null and void.’
He stared at her with an expression that flitted between outrage and disbelief. ‘This has to be a joke, right?’
‘I’m afraid not. We Irish aren’t that funny.’
‘But I’m competing in the race tomorrow. I can’t just—’
‘You could try Maureen’s place, three miles up the road from here. It’s out of season for her so I don’t know if she’s put the cows in the field now but you could always ask her.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘It is dark and freezing out here. I have no car—’
‘Well, how’d you get here?’
‘Some maniac cab driver who drove ninety-five all the way from the airport.’
‘Ah, Seamus. Yes, he’s a poppet,’ she smiled, going to close the door on him. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t help. Good luck tomorrow.’
‘Wait!’ His command was so forceful and panicked it could have made the fish breach the water. ‘You can’t just . . . you can’t just leave me out here.’
‘Mr Gilmore, I don’t see what more I can do. You forfeited your reservation here.’
‘But my flight was delayed! And then I had to go straight to the briefing for the kit checks and bag drops. I got here as soon as I could.’
‘Of course. Of course. I understand that, Mr Gilmore,’ she said, tutting sympathetically. ‘And if you’d only rung ahead and explained, I could have held your pitch for you.’
‘But I . . . I didn’t realize.’
‘No. People don’t. They think we’ll just sit around in a field for hours, waiting for them to turn up.’ She gave a shrug of her shoulders. ‘The Packards turned up just as I was locking up so they got it instead. Last pitch this side of Cork, I shouldn’t imagine. I told them they were lucky, especially in this weather.’
She watched him stand there in the rain, his suit getting soaked through, tidemarks beginning to seep up the leather shoes. She took a sip of her wine, feeling only a little bit bad for him. Yes, it was mean to give away his pitch, but had he given any regard whatsoever to his actions inconveniencing her earlier? Of course not. He had no idea of what the consequences of his selfishness meant for her.
‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, okay? It was . . . it was selfish and you have every right to be pissed at me. But surely I can set up my tent in a corner somewhere?’
‘I wish I could oblige you, but that would infringe our health and safety guidelines, not to mention invalidate our insurance.’
‘But it would just be for tonight. It’s imperative I get a decent night’s sleep before the race. I won’t even be sleeping in the tent tomorrow night – I’ll be running straight through and be done by dawn on Sunday morning.’
She suppressed a knowing smirk. Before dawn on Sunday? He fancied himself, clearly. There was a reason the race finished at six that evenin
g.
‘Mr Gilmore, please,’ she said, giving a tight smile. ‘You’re putting me in a very awkward position. I wish I could help but my hands are tied. Good night now—’
‘This is bullshit!’ he cried as she went to shut the door on him, her eyes suddenly fastening on a beam of light behind the hedgerows, coming down the lane.
‘What—?’ Ben Gilmore turned to see what she was looking at, just as the Range Rover turned around the bend and pulled into her short, rutted drive.
She looked back at him, realizing she had to get this man off her doorstep before Bertie got out of the car. ‘Okay, look, you can uh . . .’ She glanced around frantically. ‘You can set up in the garden.’
‘Really?’ he asked, surprised. He looked around at the small patch of lawn, ring-fenced by a low mossy-topped stone wall. It was a surprisingly effectively windbreak for those rare days when she wanted to attempt a tan. Annoyingly, he’d sleep better there tonight than he would have done in the field, but she was over her earlier anger with him now. Bertie was here and that was all that really mattered.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Just, away from the house. Over there somewhere,’ she said, practically shooing him towards the far uppermost corner.
But Bertie was already out of the car and coming through the pedestrian gate. Too late, he saw her visitor on the doorstep, visibly misstepping as his brain tried to calculate the benefits of a swift about-turn.
‘Mr Flanagan,’ Gilmore said, a note of surprise in his voice.
‘Ah! Our American friend,’ Bertie said, drawing closer and clearly recognizing him from the meeting too. ‘Checking in, are you?’