by Susan Conley
My God, she thought. I am going to be travelling around the whole of Ireland for a year. I am going to have to:
1 - Get my laptop serviced, just in case
2 - Sublet my place
3 - Do laundry
4 - Change money
…
Her mind wandered. She’d need a home base, probably in Dublin. Looking around at the humungous buildings surrounding her on all sides, she thought: I’d hate to move to Ireland and live in another city. Her mind wandered, and she had a vision of a tiny little house on the side of a hill, and the sea, and a horse. A horse? She’d never ridden a horse! She’d never so much as touched a horse in her entire life!
5 - Forward all her mail to Maria Grazia.
6 - Open an account in Ireland??
7 - Ring Ja —
She looked down at the phone that she was still clutching in her hand. He’d die if he knew about this! Dan Minnehan, she could almost hear him shout! Under different circumstances, she’d maybe have seen if it was okay to look up his sisters. Under different circumstances, she’d have called already. Under different circumstances, maybe they’d be celebrating tonight …
8 - New carry case for her Mac, and bigger bag with wheels for clothes.
• • •
He’d have to get someone in to the place. No way was he giving up this lease — and he thought he remembered hearing that a couple of cousins were moving over in August. Jamie went into the studio, and went right back out again. How in the name of God was he going to get all that sorted? Luckily, he had only to go over for a few weeks, sign some papers, bring Sinann … He went back in to the studio and stayed, his empty little espresso cup dangling from a finger, and he walked around and around his prize-winning work. When he came face-to-face with it — her — he knew that he had to give the girl a bell.
A long gloomy weekend had passed, and he had eventually managed to rationalize his churlish behavior, and then rationalize himself right back into more self-chastisement. If he hadn’t been so spooked, he could have had a pretty feckin’ fabulous night, if that dress had been any indication, and could have been able to talk to Annabelle like a human being, not some kind of Neanderthal tosser.
Sure she gave as good as she got, and he had a little laugh, a very little one, at his own expense. Disorganized, was he? He’d show her! He strode out toward his wardrobe, and pulled out a heavy-duty metal-framed backpack, and started throwing clothes into it. I’ll be packed and ready to go in no time!
• • •
Annabelle traveled a few more blocks, and paused again, on the edge of a planter near Sixth Avenue.
21- Call Jamie?
Nerves about the now-successful meeting, and guilt over Callie, from whom she had not seen nor heard all weekend, had pushed the Friday night debacle out of her mind. She had, at some earlier stage, agreed with everything he had said — in fact, had said it herself. However, it had royally sucked to have it aimed directly at her, especially when she was showing so much skin and practically crippling herself in those flippin’ shoes. Plus, it also sucked right now because she didn’t feel like calling him, even though she needed him, because he had acted like she was some kind of marriage-mad freak bent on dragging him down the aisle whether he wanted to or not.
21 - Call Jamie? She crossed that out, and scribbled over it a few times for good measure.
21 - Save Callie.
• • •
Just ring her! Jamie lay on his bed, staring as best he could out of the grimy skylight. The backpack lay abandoned on the floor. What was happening with that Pooka? He rolled over a stack of laundry he’d yet to put away, and then grabbed the lot and shoved it into his bag. There! Done! He ought to buzz the girl and let her know that he had seen to his packing already, ha, ha, ha!
I’m losing what little sense I have left, he thought, getting up off the bed and searching for the phone. He’d just had the thing ten minutes ago …
• • •
Annabelle ran across the avenue against the light, and was treated to a symphony of outraged honking. She panted a bit, and stopped, again, this time at the top of the stairway leading down to the F train. She flipped open the case of her phone again, and stared at the tiny screen, thumbing through the electronic phone book …
• • •
Ah, right, pile of newspapers. But where was her card? He patted the pockets of his jeans, and shoved around a few piles of papers on his kitchen countertop, and then saw it propped up on the stove … for some reason. I should probably ring her on the mobile …
• • •
No way, Annabelle decided, and erased the ten digit number that began with 718 —
• • •
Way to go, thought Jamie as he pressed the last number in the string that began with 917 —
• • •
Forget it. Annabelle shut her phone once and for all, and made her way down into the subway.
• • •
Feck’s sake. Out of coverage. Jamie threw down the phone, this time onto a nearby chair, and went back into his studio.
• • •
Arrrrrrrrgggggggggh! wailed a highly-cheesed-off Pooka, watching from a vantage point high in the ether. Never leave a human to do the job of a spirit!
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Oh, just one more. One measly little bottle more.”
“Lorna! I’ve got so much stuff to do tomorrow!”
“Maria Grazia, you agree with me, don’t you? One more, one eensy weensy bottle more … ” Lorna, pretending to die from dehydration, fell over out of sight.
“How did she end up behind the scenes?” Maria Grazia gave in and did one of the things that she did best, and signaled for waitstaff.
“I could have been an actress. I decided that I had too many brains.” Lorna was a bit tipsy; desperate to make up for that Dom P that Annabelle’s Pooka had provided, she’d left her Amex behind the bar of Nobu and let it rip. While she wasn’t feeling reckless enough to break the bank, the wine had flowed freely as they celebrated Annabelle’s big signing and her imminent departure.
Annabelle held her head in her hands. “I have so much to do tomorrow!” She looked at her friends, and wearily toasted, yet again. “To me, yeah, yeah. There are at least four key things, five, maybe, that I haven’t accomplished yet, through no fault of my own, I might add. Where’s my — “ She opened her little notebook. “Tecserve won’t have my Mac back until tomorrow, I have to drop the keys to my place off with one of Kelli’s mimes, I have to go see Kelli before I go, and I have to pack.”
That got Maria Grazia and Lorna’s attention. “You’re joking,” said Lorna.
“You haven’t packed?” Maria Grazia was so surprised she dropped her fork.
“I’ve been packing every day, but every morning when I wake up, my stuff, mysteriously, is all over the place!” Annabelle shoved her notebook back in her bag.
“Is it, uh, your friend?” Maria Grazia inquired delicately.
“Some friend,” Annabelle huffed. “More like a huge pain in the — ”
“Be nice to your Pooka!” Lorna roared. Heads turned. “She has been working terribly hard for you, and looking out for you, and doing lovely things like leaving incredibly nice bottles of champagne in your fridge and, and confetti and then there’s what’shisname, Goya — ”
Maria Grazia shoved some of the lobster seviche in Lorna’s mouth. Annabelle sank down a bit in her seat. “Okay, okay,” she soothed. “She’s a great friend and I’m sure she’s not deliberately trying to drive me crazy.”
Lorna nodded, satisfied, and Maria Grazia signaled again, pointing at the coffee pot.
“So what about Jamie?” Maria Grazia leaned toward Annabelle while propping up an increasingly wobbly Lorna, who wouldn’t be so drunk if
she had actually eaten the dinner she’d ordered.
Annabelle shrugged. “He hasn’t called me, which would be his responsibility for acting as though I was some scheming … witch.” She looked out the window, out at the night, her last night in New York. For a while, she thought to herself quickly. Last night for a while, not forever … “Maybe I did come on a bit strong.”
“Well, he had it coming to him. But you do have some unfinished business.” Lorna glared at the cup of coffee that had materialized before her.
Annabelle turned her head from the window, and covered the street side of her face with her hand. “Speaking of unfinished business … ” and she ducked down a fraction again as Wilson entered the restaurant.
“Oh, shit,” Lorna howled, and Maria Grazia forced her to take a swallow of coffee. Annabelle stared straight ahead, the feeling of Wilson’s presence burning into the back of her head. “Where is he?” she asked Maria Grazia, whose eyes were imperceptibly scanning the joint.
“He’s over at the back. Alone,” MG added, anticipating the next question.
Annabelle turned her head to the left, and saw him reflected in a mirror hanging on the wall next to their table. There he was. Big as life. And, she realized, at the same table he’d chosen when they had dined here on their first real date. It had been two days after they’d met at the gallery opening, and she remembered that she’d been running late, but not on purpose, hadn’t intended to make an entrance, and she remembered the way he’d risen to his feet when she’d entered the place, and how —
Nah. Who cared what had happened? She smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in her sexy off-the-shoulder top, fluffed out her bob, and rose. Maria Grazia gaped, and Lorna sat back and stole a sip from her champagne flute, which she had hidden beneath the table. “Go on,” she growled. “Go get ’im!”
Annabelle stood and checked herself out in the mirror. “I intend to have a civilized conversation, Lorna. Relax.”
She turned and strode calmly over to where Wilson was sitting, tie thrown over his shoulder in anticipation of his meal, reading Newsweek magazine on his iPad. I, thought Annabelle, have always preferred Time.
“Hello,” Annabelle said, looking down at him. First expression: dismay. Second expression: sphinx-like, yet wary. He laid his tablet aside, and shoved back his chair.
Annabelle dropped down into the one across from him. “Oh, don’t get up. It’s so medieval.” That wasn’t true: I, she thought, actually like old-fashioned courtship rituals. Never mind; it sounded good. “I passed you in the street the other day. You were with your fiancée.”
“Ah. Winifred.” He cleared his throat.
“Yes. We’d met.” Annabelle raised an admonishing hand. “I’m not going to make a scene. I know how you hate them.” She smiled. “And I don’t have many questions, hardly any, apart from one: how long were you dating ‘Winnie’ when you were still actually dating me?”
Wilson looked over her shoulder, worriedly, at the door. He pulled his tie back over his shoulder, and smoothed it down fussily, playing for time. Annabelle leaned an elbow on the table, and dropped her chin in her hand. “I had asked you, remember? If you’d met someone else?”
“I believe you asked me if I’d met someone new, and strictly speaking I hadn’t, and not that it was any of your — ”
Annabelle hooted. “So slippery! No wonder you’re so good at what you do.”
“Bitterness isn’t becoming,” Wilson said, primly.
“Neither is lying or cheating.” Annabelle held up her hand again. “Trust me, I don’t sit at home going over and over the last things you said to me. I’m far too busy for that. But there are two things that have bugged me, the thing about a possible ‘other woman’ and the bit about me loving you more than you loved me?” She shook her head, and pushed back her chair. “I didn’t. Just to let you know, so you’re not laboring under some kind of conceited misconception. I didn’t. I was just much, much better at showing it.”
She rose, and Wilson’s stunned gaze followed her. “Congratulations on the wedding. I do hope that rock was insured. I really must return to my friends and continue celebrating my latest success.”
Lorna and Maria Grazia didn’t bother concealing the fact that they’d been watching like hawks, and they broke out into spontaneous applause as Annabelle joined them. She smiled and regally nodded her thanks.
“He looks even more uptight than normal,” jeered Lorna.
“And now he looks really, really confused,” laughed Maria Grazia. “‘I didn’t order a bottle of champagne!’”
Annabelle clapped her hands. “You didn’t!” Lorna smirked and winked.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Maria Grazia sat up and peered over Annabelle’s head. “Look who’s here!”
“Oooh, it’s that bitch — that diamondless bitchface!” Lorna tried to kneel up on her seat.
“Sit down!” Annabelle hid her face in her hands. “Don’t do this! I don’t want to — I don’t need to — what are they doing?”
Maria Grazia and Lorna took turns with the play-by-play. “Bitchface has seated herself — and she’s not too happy about that — ”
“‘And why are you sending back that perfectly fine bottle of champers, darling?’” Lorna simpered.
“‘Never you mind, Bitchface, just do what I tell you to do and I’ll marry you and knock you up and commence taking mistresses.’” Maria Grazia boomed.
Lorna’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Bitchface chastises Willy with less than a look — even I’m not that good — ”
“And he turns to beg the poor beleaguered wait person, yes, we’ve changed our minds again — ”
“He’s not moving fast enough for Bitchface — oh, my Lord!” Lorna gasped, suddenly sober. “She has just snapped her fingers at the waiter — ”
“Who is now carrying a full tray — ”
“He’s tripped — ”
“He’s — ”
Annabelle could have filled in the rest for herself, but turned to look anyway as a piercing scream filled the restaurant. A tray set with bowls full of some violently red-colored liquid — which didn’t appear anywhere on the menu — rained down on Winifred’s head, dripping down the front and back of her white linen suit, destroying it utterly. Wilson ineffectually patted at her with a napkin, and she smacked at his hand with more force than was necessary.
The waiter calmly put down his tray and walked away, toward Annabelle’s table. Passing it as he went to the door, he winked one merry hazel eye at Annabelle before going out into the street.
“Callie!” Annabelle grabbed her bag and ran out after her. She blew kisses to her friends, shouted, “See you tomorrow!” and was gone.
“That,” said Lorna, “Was worth the price of admission.” Winifred was now weeping hysterically and calling for the manager, and Wilson stood by, the rejected napkin dangling uncertainly from his hand.
“Talk about closure,” Maria Grazia said, and poured out another round. “Well, Annabelle’s back to … normal.”
“Wonder where I could get one of those Pooka things?” Lorna muttered into her drink, as she leaned up against Maria Grazia’s shoulder. Both put their feet up on the seat opposite and settled back to better enjoy the continuing drama.
• • •
Annabelle could just make out the back of the ‘waiter’ as ‘he’ moved briskly down Hudson Street. The balmy spring evening had lured quite a crowd to Tribeca, and Annabelle wasn’t keen to make too much of a spectacle of herself. Breaking into a trot, she started to overtake the ‘waiter’, muttering, “Callie Callie Callie Callie,” over and over and as the next traffic light threatened to change against her, she broke into a run and was just about to make it when —
She plowed right into Jamie.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,�
� he said, when he got his breath back. He steadied her, and she jumped up and down, trying to see over his shoulder.
“Oh, no, oh, no, he’s gone — she’s gone — damn it!” Annabelle felt the urge to stamp her foot. What a silly thing to do.
“Who’s gone? Oh.” Jamie let go of her, and he stepped aside.
“I haven’t seen her since, uh, Friday night, and she looked terrible, like she was — she looked awful.” Annabelle twisted the strap of her purse around and around her hands. “I have made such a mess of this! If I hadn’t had been so stubborn from the beginning, she wouldn’t be in such trouble! There I was, trying for years to make something happen, conjure up who knows what and when a thing, a real magical thing, actually presents itself and asks me to do it a favor, what do I do? I make a mess of it, and it’s become harder and harder for her to shapeshift and, she won’t make it back to Ireland, I just know it, and it’s all my fault!” And Annabelle burst into tears.
Jamie led her over to a stoop and sat her down. Saying nothing, he let Annabelle get it out of her system. She had her head down on her knees, and was mumbling at her feet. He patted her back, and she raised her head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I feel like such a fool.”
Not for nothing did he have three sisters, most especially an older sister who used to tear up, much less sob, at the drop of a hat. He reached into his jacket and handed Annabelle a handkerchief. She sat up, and blew her nose thunderously. “Keep it,” he asserted, when she tried to hand it back to him, and they both laughed.
“Listen, Ja — ”
“C’mere, Ann — ”
“Oh, you — ”
“Go on, you — ”
They both fell silent, and eyeballed each other. Jamie shook his head, and Annabelle nodded at him. He shook his head again, she nodded, he opened his mouth, and Annabelle blurted, “I’m sorry I was such a brat. Last week.”
“You weren’t a brat. I was the biggest eejit.”
“You were. An enormous eejit.”
They smiled a little and fell silent again.