Funnily enough it wasn’t the nights that were the worst, it was the evenings. The long increasingly cold evenings huddled up in front of the fire with only Lizzie to talk to. She’d joked she’d end up being known as the mad woman at World’s End. It wasn’t far from the truth.
Running up the stairs to change into her pink pompom slippers, now starting to fray around the edges she paused on the threshold of her boudoir – boudoir because bedroom simply wasn’t a good enough word to describe this, her private retreat.
The room had gradually transformed before her eyes into a cacophony of colour. The old faded wallpaper had been ripped off and replaced with a rich royal cranberry reminiscent of a bowl of summer fruits. The skirting boards had been sanded to within an inch of their life and finished off in a rich clotted cream while the old moth eaten carpet was lifted to reveal a hidden treasure in original floorboards.
She’d kept one wall cream, peppering it with an assortment of her grandmother’s artwork. This was going to be her room, her den, her place to escape from the world and she wanted it to be perfect. Hours were spent scouring junk yards and car boots in search of new furniture, or at least new to her. She’d know what she was looking for as soon as she saw it - not some shop bought mass produced tat, but something robust that could be turned into a shaker style masterpiece with a couple of coats of paint and careful sanding. She’d finally found her furniture, not in the village or Cork even but in a skip on the other side of Worlds End. It hadn’t cost her anything other than the promise of a pint the next time she met her neighbour down the local.
She’d nipped up to Cork briefly after work that morning to find the perfect duvet cover only to come home with swaths of cranberry fabric and oceans of ribbon as well as a drop dead gorgeous throw the exact colour of her walls. She was no needlewoman but hours spent watching her grandmother tinkering away on her old Singer sewing machine had given her the impetus to try and make the kind of duvet cover she coveted, an hour browsing around Vibes and Scribes had done the rest.
Trundling back down to the kitchen she flipped on the switch of the kettle before checking the pot of Irish stew she’d put in the slow cooker hours earlier: The rich aromas now mingling with the smell of baking bread finishing off in the oven. She was still working on that promise of looking after herself and not letting things slip like last time. But last time was different she reminded herself as she added a camomile teabag to her cup. Last time she’d been recovering from surgery to remove her damaged tube. Last time she’d had a life threating allergic response to the antibiotics she’d been given, her reaction so rare even the doctors were flummoxed in the beginning. It took a locum to spot it and, within minutes of diagnosis to transfer her to intensive care.
And he wondered why she wouldn’t answer his emails or texts? She would never forgive him for what he’d done to her. How could he expect her to?
Making her way into the sitting room her mind ruthlessly tried to stamp out the past, but going back to Cork had brought a host of memories back to haunt her. Lighting the fire only took one attempt and, with a quick swish of the curtains she was soon cradling her mug in one hand, the other idly stroking Lizzie who’d followed her out of the kitchen following an impromptu snack.
She hated this time of the evening. It was only five o’clock so she had five hours before she could even think of making her way to bed. Five lonely hours with only Lizzie and her thoughts to keep her company, thoughts that would lead nowhere. She knew he’d never come to her. She knew she’d made it impossible for him to find her, but still she waited.
The knock when it came made her jump out of her chair. It was nine o’clock now and for the last three hours World’s End had seemed more like Piccadilly Circus than a sleepy village - It felt like all the children in the area had made their way to her cottage in search of goodies. Grabbing the fast dwindling basket of treats she pulled open the door.
It wasn’t trick or treaters. It wasn’t even Ruari – it was Simon.
Chapter Thirty Two
‘Hello darling, pleased to see me?’ He said, pushing through the door and closing it behind him with a resounding click. ‘Here, these are for you.’ He added, holding out a bunch of red roses before placing them on the table. ‘You gave me the shock of my life I can tell you when I spotted you earlier. I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.’
She watched him, her stew settling in the bottom of her stomach like a lead weight. The last time she’d seen him, or at least part of him he’d been in bed humping her so called best friend and now here he was flinging off his coat and throwing himself on the sofa as if he’d just come home from a hard day at the office instead of…..
‘What are you doing here?’ She moved away from the door and, walking to the window started fiddling with the curtains. She couldn’t bear to be in his presence. She couldn’t bear to think of him, let alone look at him but here he was, and by the looks of things intent of staying for a while. What the hell had she seen in him, she thought her eyes tethered to the slight gap in the curtains where darkness resided. What had she seen in this little squirt decked out in designer suit and matching topcoat? All he needed was the matching trilby to appear on the front cover of ‘Wanker Weekly.’ She must have been mad, or duped – whatever the reason the very thought of him made her want to gag.
‘Why I’m here to see you my darling. That silly misunderstanding with Clara, little slut, she threw herself at me.’ He raised his hands in defeat. ‘So I was weak. It was only the once. It’s you I love, we’ve been through so much together with you gran…..’
‘Don’t you dare mention my grandmother!’ She interrupted, anger flaring up to dampen down any other feeling. ‘I don’t want you here Simon. Please leave.’
‘Ah, there’s no need to be like that. I know you’ve been through a lot but there’s no need to brush me off.’ He stood up and, joining her at the window grabbed her shoulders. ‘We were made for each other, you and me.’ He started to massage her skin, seemingly unaware of her unresponsiveness. ‘We’ll get married from here darling. You can give up work if you like. I’ve been offered a consultant’s post on old Mac’s team so you won’t need to. You can stay home and keep house.’
Placing her hands flat on his chest she gave one almighty heave sending him stumbling backwards across the room.
‘You’re not listening to me. I told you to go and I meant it.’ She laughed, but it was an empty sound. ‘You could never take no for an answer could you?’
‘Hey, that’s not very fair. You were keen enough at the time.’ There was a pause and then he was there in front of her dragging her into a tight embrace his arms crushing into her skin. ‘You owe me Grainne. I’ve told old Mac this morning that we’re engaged and he’s keen to be invited around to our wonderful home – a sort of joint celebration.’ He lowered his head to within inches of her face. ‘Let’s cement it with a kiss shall we, I’m sure it will be better than the last time – it couldn’t very well be any worse.’
His lips met hers and she felt the vomit build up in the back of her throat. She couldn’t breathe, but she couldn’t push him away – he was too strong. She felt his tongue probe into her mouth and panic set in. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t see anything except his eyes staring back at her. She was suffocating - she had to breathe or she’d die. She’d die standing there being attacked by someone she’d thought she loved. Well not anymore.
Chapter Thirty Three
She was easy to find when he knew where to look.
1 Lobster Cottage
World’s End
Kinsale
He clung to the address for dear life, mumbling the words over and over again least he forget; not that there was any chance of that. Trust her to live at the end of the world. He’d searched under every stone within a twenty mile radius of Cork without ever thinking about Kinsale. Her grandmother had been a celebrated artist. He didn’t know a Damien Hurst from a Picasso, but even he’d heard of
the Royal Academy and she’d been one of its Academicians. He had no idea what that title meant of course, but it was bound to be important.
It only took a couple of clicks for her life to unfold before his eyes. There’d even been an obituary in The Irish Times with a small black and white photograph. The resemblance was clear to see. He was pleased she looked like her gran - It would mean a lot.
He plumbed the coordinates into his GPS, threw his holdall into his top box and set off for his last shift at the hospital.
Hours later found him walking down their steps for the last time, or at least the last time as its A&E consultant. They’d thrown an impromptu party for him in the staff room with cake in the shape of an AED defibrillator; cake that felt like sawdust in his mouth. He’d played the game, said all the right things and promised to stay in touch, but in truth all he felt was relief at leaving.
With his visor pulled down and his leather jacket zipped up to the neck he revved up the engine, feeling happier than he’d felt in a very long time. He planned to sort out whatever it was had caused her to run away. He’d nearly gone mad trying to work out what had happened to make her change her mind for; of course the migraine had been a ruse.
It had to be something she’d seen or overheard around at Paul and Sorcha’s and the only thing he could think of was his conversation with Mitch. His face burnt at the thought. But if she had something against marriage – fine, they’d live in sin or whatever the word was for it these days. He didn’t care about anything anymore except her.
The clock on his dash had just clicked to 21.00 when he pulled up outside her cottage, clinks of light just visible behind heavy dark curtains. He paused then, uncertain. He hadn’t a plan, apart from flowers that is and there weren’t many of those – only a small bunch of violets clasped in his hand. He hadn’t prepared a speech or even words, choice words that he could say; words that would make everything alright. Impossible when he didn’t know what had made everything all wrong.
He had nothing to be scared of and yet he was scared - scared, uneasy, terrified and hopeful all in the same breath. Pulling his shoulders back he raised his hand to the door and knocked, his knuckles grazing the wood. After a moment he knocked again, but this time it was different. This time he heard muffled sounds coming from behind the hardwood door.
‘You bloody bitch!’
Trying the handle it gave way under his hand and he walked in to find a stranger, or at least a stranger to him, rolling around the floor clutching his meat and two veg between his hands.
‘Look what you’ve done to me you cow.’ He gasped between anguished gasps. ‘You’ve probably given me a hydrocele or worse.’
‘Serves you right! Perhaps next time you decide to stick your tongue down someone’s throat you’ll ask permission first.’
Ruari had to suppress the laughter forming in his throat. He shouldn’t be laughing at a time like this, but the sight of Grainne like some Amazonian war goddess with Lizzie clutched in one hand and a poker in the other was enough to set his heart ablaze. He just hoped he’d never get on the wrong side of her.
‘Here, let me help, I’m a doc….’ He started to say but he was interrupted.
‘No you don’t! Sure isn’t he a doctor himself.’ There was a pause, their eyes meeting across the room, but if he was hoping for some hidden message to flow between them he was in for a huge disappointment.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you can get out and take Simon with you.’ She turned away, the poker dropping by her side.
‘Come on mate.’ He said, helping him up. ‘She’s wielding a serious looking poker and, the mood she’s in I wouldn’t put it past her.’
‘Get off.’ Simon brushed away his hand before hobbling to the end of the sofa. ‘I wouldn’t set foot in this place again even if it is the last place in the world.’ Shrugging on his coat he paused, taking his time to run his eyes up and down Ruari. ‘She’s all yours mate. “Sloppy seconds” has never been my style. Be careful how you handle her though.’ He added, throwing a calculating smile her way. ‘Last time I went there she gave me a nasty dose of the clap.’
‘Get out!’ Grabbing his arm he manhandled him across the room and out the door in ten seconds flat.
The silence was palpable. The walls, the room, even Lizzie seemed to sigh with relief at the sound of the door finally shutting behind him.
Grainne reached blindly for the chair before sinking back, her eyes staring into the flames. Her voice when it came was a cracked scarcely audible whisper that screamed defeat – her defeat. Simon might have gone, but he’d won. Despite everything the bad man had won – the bad man always won.
‘Just go.’
He couldn’t go, what man would? What man would leave her after that? Not a gentleman certainly and not him.
‘Grainne I….’
She was on her feet, her glorious hair surrounding her like a burnishing copper halo: Her eyes blazing. Two bright red concentric circles clown like in her chalk white face. Her voice wasn’t cracked or soft now. Now it was clearly enunciated and sharp, as sharp and effective as daggers slicing through his flesh.
‘I don’t want you here. I don’t need you, or any man.’
He watched her turn back to her chair: Suddenly diminished, shrunken, less vital – lost.
He couldn’t go and yet he couldn’t stay. With one last look over his shoulder he made his way into the hall and then the kitchen. Fumbling around in cupboards he finally came back with some hot chocolate. She was still sitting there in the exact same position he’d left her, head now hidden in her hands.
Grabbing a throw from the back of the sofa he draped it across her shoulders like an old woman and, taking hold of her hands moulded them around the mug.
‘Come on. Have some hot chocolate and then it’s off to bed with you. I’m not going until it’s all gone.’
She must have heard although she didn’t answer. Instead, cradling the mug between her hands she started taking slow sips until the mug was empty. She sat there mug aloft until he prised it from her fingers and set it down on the table. Still she didn’t speak. She didn’t move, she didn’t look at him. She must be in some kind of trance, he thought wishing he’d listened more at that recent study day on post-traumatic stress. Simon had obviously hit a nerve, more than one by the look of things and he didn’t have a clue how to deal with her like this. He could only hope she’d be better in the morning.
Gathering her up in his arms he placed her head, as floppy as a rag doll against his shoulder and made his way to the stairs. Taking a gamble he pushed open the first door he came to and knew it was the right choice if only because of the absence of white. He was reminded of a Charlotte Russe, or should that be strawberry trifle: Whatever the comparison the room shrieked of its owner – bright, original, a one off.
Placing her on top of the bed, her head neatly arranged on the pillow he secured the throw in place and stood back to look at her. Her eyes were closed now, and he couldn’t quite decide if her breathing pattern meant she was asleep or just faking it. He should go, but he wanted to stay. He wanted to pull the matching red and cream chair beside her bed and watch guard over her like some Romeo type. He wanted to be there when she woke up. He wanted to be there full stop, but he knew she wanted him to leave.
Walking back downstairs his ears strained for any sounds from her room but all was silent. He rescued Lizzie from the sofa and, climbing up the stairs again settled her on the end of the bed. Then he left. He had no more excuses to linger, no matter how much he wanted to stay.
Chapter Thirty Four
He’d booked himself into a hotel with sea views, but he didn’t even take the time to open the curtains before heading out. He bypassed the dining room, his stomach in deep mourning at the smell of freshly brewed coffee but he promised he’d make it up to him later. He had to see her and, deep within the back of his mind was the fear she’d do a runner – after all she’d done it before.
&nb
sp; Knocking on the door was an exercise in self-torture, all his fears realised in the silence that answered him. What if he’d gotten out of bed earlier? What if he’d spent the night sitting on her doorstep? What if he’d slept on her sofa? She’d done a runner and he didn’t have a clue where to look.
Pushing his glasses up his nose his attention was drawn to the sound of hammering coming from a house the other end of the road. He wasn’t hopeful but it couldn’t hurt.
The door was answered by a bald man in scruffy denims, his paunch straining over the blue waistband.
‘Alright mate?’ His voice questioning.
‘Hiya, do you know where Grainne is?’
‘And you’d be asking because?’ His eyes narrowing.
‘I used to work with her in Dublin.’ He searched around his brain for what to say next and then it came to him. ‘I’m a doctor.’
‘Ah that makes it alright does it? Her last boyfriend was a doctor. He was a right tosser!’
‘You’re telling me.’
Girl Descending (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 2) Page 17