He paused, but only long enough to flick on the kettle and gather together a couple of mugs from the rack in the corner. ‘There’s just time for a whistle stop tour of the other rooms before coffee.’
The other rooms were a small study, surprisingly neat with an empty desk apart from the inevitable laptop plonked in the centre and wall to wall books. She would have loved a browse to see what he read but he was dragging her out before she could even sigh at the lack of colour.
The bedrooms came next, but two were discounted with shrugged shoulders as not being finished yet. She could see what he meant now about the colour scheme, both painted in that strange shade of pink peculiar to farmed salmon, but that still didn’t explain all the white.
The master bedroom came as no surprise when he pushed the pristine door open and neither did his comment.
‘We could always bring our coffees up here; it has the best views after all.’
What of - the ceiling!’ She parried, looking up at the freshly painted coving.
I’ll give you ceiling.’ He went to grab her, but she side stepped his hand to take a look out of the window.
‘Stunning.’ Her eyes focused on the yachts still just visible on the horizon. ‘Come on.’ She added, carefully avoiding the very large bed made up with what looked like freshly ironed bed linen - always a give-away if sex was on the cards, or so her friends had told her. Apparently there was nothing more off putting than an unmade bed with grubby sheets – grubby sheets were a definite no no.
‘That kettle should have boiled and I’d love a cuppa.’ She gave him a wink. ‘All this house needs is just a few cushions and throws to inject some colour, even magnolia would have been preferable.’
‘Nah, white’s so much easier. No problem with buying the wrong shade now is there.’ He strode across, but only to place his hand on her shoulder. ‘Well if I can’t tempt you with the view perhaps I can with my coffee.’
‘Is there cake?’
She felt his hand curl around her shoulder.
‘I don’t normally bake on a Tuesday but you might find a few biscuits. You’ll need them; I have plans for…’
‘Ruari I don’t want…’
But he interrupted. ‘Don’t be jumping to any conclusions; conclusions like that come after the walk. It’s a shame I didn’t think to drop in at Freddie’s so you could get your bathers.’
After coffee (no biscuits) they’d walked in companionable silence to the headland where they watched boy after boy flinging themselves off the rocks into the dark pool below.
‘So why do they do that exactly?’
‘How am I supposed to know - Because it’s there; because they can?’
‘Bloody stupid if you ask me.’ She turned to face him. ‘And you were the eejit that wanted me to bring my bathers?’
‘Well…’ He eyed her back, a smile hovering on his lips. ‘I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed – the boys don’t always wear their bathers.’ He paused then. ‘Neither do the women come to think of it. It’s sort of a tradition at ‘The Forty Foot’ going back years, and who am I to argue with tradition?’
She stepped away, one eye fastened to the edge where a group of teenage boys were now doing double somersaults into the waters below. She wasn’t a prude, far from it but there was no way on God’s earth she was prepared to strip starkers and jump into the Irish Sea, and certainly not in front of the likes of him: him with his perfect body and perfect face.
‘So what’s for tea then, I’m bloody starving!’
‘God woman, where do you put it all, that’s what I want to know. You don’t have a hump anywhere that you’ve been hiding do you? I’d better let you in on a little secret. I’m not a great one for surprises so if there’s something you’re not telling me – you’re not bulimic or…?’
She interrupted, but only with a shake of her head. Reaching for his hand she allowed him lead her back to the house. If their friendship was to continue she’d have to tell him, or at least tell him some of it.
The door had barely closed when she pulled away and walked into her favourite room. She already had a favourite room in his house. Already a favourite expression, the one where his eyes sort of laughed all by themselves and already a favourite view. The yachts were only a memory, a memory replaced by a couple of day cruisers off on a jolly.
She could hear his footsteps as he crossed the floor as silent as a cat, but she didn’t turn around. It was best that way. Her life history would pause him in his tracks - what man would want to be close to her then?
‘You asked me earlier what was wrong. It was the wrong question.’
‘What?’
‘You should have asked me what was right. It would have been an easier one to answer - easier and a lot shorter.’
The little pleasure boats had disappeared now. She could have moved to the other window to follow their progress but she didn’t. She remained where she was, eyes focused on the suddenly turbulent sea as it smashed against the rocks below.
‘There’s nothing right. There’s been nothing right for a very long time.’ She lifted her hand then, brushing her hair out of her eyes. He’d hated her hair of course. He’d called her a ginge, a carrot top; all the names he could come up with and still she’d stayed. She’d stayed because she thought she’d loved him. It hadn’t been love.
‘He was called Simon,’ resting her head against the glass.
She wasn’t in Dublin now. She wasn’t in Cork. She wasn’t even back in her little cottage in Kinsale. She was in that no man’s land where memories reside – memories and pain.
She spoke then, her secrets rushing out and slamming against the glass, the view beyond soon hidden behind the mist of her words.
Chapter Twenty One
His name was Simon.
Well it would be. Simple Simon. Simple Simon the pie man Simon - stupid Simon. Simon the bastard!
He’d seen him he remembered. He’d seen him and disliked what he’d seen. A jumped up little pip squeak. An arrogant little shit with no bedside manner to speak of. The only question he had. The only question forever left unsaid – what the hell had she seen in him?
He stood in the middle of his lounge listening as her words came tumbling out. Words that must hurt – they were hurting him, and he barely knew her. He wanted to reach out, to offer some physical comfort - a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist, a shoulder to cry on. But he didn’t. He just stood there and listened, unaware of everything other than the sound of her voice.
‘His name was Simon.’ She repeated. ‘I met him a couple of years ago when he….when I…’ He watched her take a huge breath and still he could do nothing to help. He was helpless until her words were spoken.
‘It was my job to show him around the unit. I’d worked there ever since I qualified – there’s not much choice of A&E units in Cork.’ Her attempt at laughter was just that, an attempt – an attempt that failed. ‘We didn’t get on at first, not until later. Not until he’d met my gran.’
She started drawing on the window then, her finger etching in fine detail a fairy-tale cottage onto the steamed up window. He wanted to tell her how good an artist she was. He could see the cottage in his mind’s eye as if he was standing before it and then it disappeared, her fist scrubbing it out in one swipe.
‘Gran had leukaemia: Acute myeloid leukaemia to be exact. She’d been in remission for years and then she wasn’t. She lost her hair. She lost her self-respect and finally she lost her life.’
He moved then. He had to, what man wouldn’t? While he wanted to know her story, while he needed to know about her; about her past, there were limits. But her next words stopped him.
‘He’s not a bad person really. He was good then – he was good to her.’ She lifted her head off the window and ran her hand across her forehead, ‘We both ended up relying on him - towards the end he sort of took over. We got engaged just before…. Just before. I’m not sure now if it was to please gran. She needed to kn
ow I was safe.’
Turning away she stumbled across to the sofa like a blind woman, feeling for the arm before easing back against the soft leather.
‘We were engaged by then. She was pleased – pleased I was safe. If only she’d known…. It was best she died when she did. It was after… After the funeral. That’s when things started to crumble.’
At that he moved. He sat beside her, next to her without touching. So near; a million miles distance between them.
‘That’s enough; you don’t have to tell me anymore.’
‘No, I need to tell you – you need to know.’ She shifted away, increasing the distance. One million, two million, fifty trillion – the numbers didn’t matter, only the distance.
‘We, he…. Well I fell pregnant…’
He continued to watch her bowed head. The way her russet hair followed the curve of her cheek, hiding her face. He’d guessed of course, but it hurt all the same.
It felt as if he’d always known, but that was stupid.
He’d always known, or at least ever since he’d set eyes on her, that there was something wrong – something askew, something out of kilter. He’d only guessed today what it might be.
He wanted to hold her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and place her head against his chest. He wanted to feel her heartbeat next to his. He wanted to take her pain away and never let her go.
He did none of these things.
With eyes locked to her face he listened to her voice - a voice almost softer than the silence that enveloped them.
‘I fell pregnant, and then I lost him…. I lost him… I lost them both.’ She met his gaze then, her expression fixed, her eyes surprisingly dry. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out; from touching her. Raising his hand he drew her towards him even as her tears started to fall. Silent tears, silent large fat tears that streaked down her face and balanced on her chin before dropping to the floor in scarcely audible plops.
He wanted to ask about Simon. He wanted to know about the baby. He needed to know; not for himself, never for himself. He needed to know so he could help. There was nothing he could say or do to make it better. She’d lost her gran, her fiancé, her baby – his words would be inadequate at best.
He sat there in the ever increasing darkness; shadows lengthening across his shiny hardwood floor his arm going numb as the tears dried up. Now the only sound to be heard was her gentle breaths as she slipped into sleep. The clock on the mantelpiece continued its silent tattoo to the beat of her heart and still he remained motionless. His legs and arms cried out to be moved and his stomach reared up in protest at its enforced fast. But it was only when his bladder joined in the desperate shout for intervention that he finally realised the urgency of the situation. If he didn’t move soon he’d be in a very embarrassing situation. He could cope with cramp. He could even cope with hunger, but incontinence?
Stretching out his legs to ease the pain in his limbs he scooped her up and head still on his shoulder carried her into the spare room.
It would be the first time that one of his ‘stay overs’ had christened the room, a room usually used by his sister. But standing looking down at her sleeping form, instinctively curled up into a tight ball he didn’t give it a thought. She needed sleep - that was all.
His eyes roamed over her face, her pale face in stark contrast to the vibrant red of her hair.
Beauty didn’t exist in this room. Pretty was all of a sudden passé. She was neither of these things, and yet a great deal more.
Easing off her shoes he paused briefly at the bright blue nail varnish before draping the duvet over her shoulders. Making his way to the kitchen, his feet echoing on the wooden floors he suddenly felt at peace. He couldn’t change the past and he had no thoughts as to the future. Shuffling between cupboards in the search of food his mind concentrated solely on the present.
Chapter Twenty Two
She woke with a start, her heart pounding in her ears. Something had woken her. Something had pulled her from the middle of a dream; a dream she couldn’t quite remember. Closing her eyes she tried slipping under her lids to snag it back from the brink of oblivion, but it was useless - all she saw was black.
Opening them again her eyes stretched wide, taking in the unfamiliar ceiling and then the strange walls so different from her own. Even the mattress was different, with that annoying lump just under her right buttock miraculously transformed into a nest as soft as a feather bed. She felt like the princess without the pea to annoy her.
There was a knock on the door and with the knock she remembered. She remembered yesterday, she remembered last night, she remembered the tears – she could only imagine the rest. Peering down she heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of her fully clothed body.
Securing the duvet under her chin she called out. ‘I’m decent.’
‘Now isn’t that a shame!’ She watched him manoeuvre the handle with his elbow and, pushing the door open with his shoulder, entered with a couple of mugs.
‘Tea in bed milady?’
‘Mm thanks, what time is it?’
‘Ah now that’s the bad bit. I’m on earlies so it’s only just after five.’ He rubbed his hand over his chin, thick with dark bristles. ‘You can either grab a lift back with me, or there’s a bus that goes on the hour that will take you….’
‘No, that’s fine. I’ll grab a lift.’ Cradling her mug with interlocking fingers she took a gentle sip of the hot brew. ‘God, I could get used to this.’
‘So could I.’ He moved then, and placing his mug on the cute oak carved bedside table bent his head to drop the softest of kisses on her tea warm lips before settling back on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving her face.
She felt her cheeks flame, although she had no reason to feel embarrassed. She’d shared his evening, even cried on his shoulder. She’d told him everything, or nearly everything – she’d even spent the night for God’s sake. She’d nothing to feel embarrassed about, but still the blush remained.
‘Sorry about last night, about…’
Picking up the mugs with one hand he curved the other around her cheek before dropping a second kiss on top of the first, this one even briefer.
‘You never have to apologise to me Grainne. I’m your friend; remember? Although I’d like to be a lot more…?’ His voice holding a question: a question she was too scared to answer. Instead she answered with a question of her own.
‘Why me?’
‘Why not!’ He was at the door now, one hand on the handle. ‘We’re good together Grainne. I like you, I like spending time with you.’
‘But…’
‘No buts – but the decision is yours. Egg sandwiches in ten minutes,’ he added. ‘You’ll find towels etcetera in the en-suite.
An hour later found them pulling up outside Freddie’s house. Grainne, standing uncertainly beside his bike didn’t know what to say.
‘Well, thanks for the lift and for…’
‘You also don’t need to thank me – it was my pleasure.’ He paused then and watching him she saw his expression change from assured to cautious.
‘Can I... That is… Did you want to go for a drink later?’
‘I’m not off until nine.’ She smiled, trying to stifle a yawn, ‘the joys of having a lie-in until five.’
His smile echoed hers. ‘That’s okay; I’ll be waiting for you.’ He slung the strap of his helmet across the handlebars before swinging his leg over the bike, the uncertain expression back on his face. His eyes flicked between her eyes, her mouth and she knew she’d have to help him out. After all it wasn’t rocket science. He wanted to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him. She could either turn her back and be done with it or she could take that one step forward – one step forward that would bind them together. There was no thought of time scale. There was no thought of the hurt that might linger at the end of the kiss. Her trainer slid forward as if pushed by an invisible force.
‘Well aren’t you the dirty stop-ou
t!’ Freddie met her at the door stuffing her mouth with toast. ‘And here was me thinking what a sweet innocent young thing I was sharing with when all along….’
‘Shut up Freddie.’ She laid a hand on her shoulder before following her into the kitchen.
‘I fell asleep on him if you must know. I woke up this morning in his spare room.’ She caught her unbelieving look. ‘Fully dressed.’
‘Poor Roar, what a waste.’ She was laughing now, wiping away crumbs with the back of her hand. ‘I bet that’s the first time a girl’s ever fallen asleep on him.’ Stuffing the last of her toast in her mouth she glanced at her watch. ‘I’m going to be late, but I expect to hear all the gory details later.’
‘Er, Ruari’s taking me out after work…’
‘Of course he is.’ She leant forward and placed a quick kiss on her cheek.’ I’m really happy for you; Ruar’s just what you need.’ Heading for the door, her rucksack dangling from her arm she added, ‘Lizzie’s asleep on your pillow, catch you later.’
Work was quiet for once. The waiting room was empty and so were most of the bays. Bumping into Aiden he sent her off to help in the day patient unit next door with the promise to holler if and when they filled up. She spent the rest of her shift escorting patients to and from surgery, but at least she was busy. She was too busy to think about anything other than work, which was good. She was also too busy to worry about Ruari, although that didn’t stop her from doing just that.
Had he asked Aiden to move her? She was sitting alone over a late supper, her cheese and tomato toasted sandwich left to grow cold. Why her? There was plenty of other staff he could have moved: staff that knew the hospital like the back of their hand.
Girl Descending (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 2) Page 11