Hating myself even more for annoying Rory at work with my whining, I did what many an Irish person does in a crisis: I put away a couple of bottles of wine and complained, cried and moaned at anyone who would listen. Unluckily for the long-suffering Joe, it happened to be him in this instance, as Ruth was off at work, their kids were all at school, and Daisy was on a random sleepover at my mam and dad’s house. My mam was clearly feeling guilty over something and so was offering me some breathing space, which was, to say the least, suspect, but it was clear that she wanted to help me. Because we weren’t as close as we both would have liked, this was her way of being kind, and I appreciated that.
By 3 p.m. I was plastered, and swaying from vulnerable victim to rowdy and argumentative pub drunk, and was no way in an acceptable state to greet my innocent nieces and nephew as they arrived home from school. So after Joe had kindly listened to all my man-bashing, he shooed me out of the kitchen up to my temporary bedroom. That is, after I’d left several inches of food debris on the dinner table in my wake, as I embarked on the challenge of consuming my own bodyweight to fill that bottomless pit of grief.
Of course, I quickly fell into a coma sleep the second my head hit the pillow, and didn’t wake up till about 4 a.m. the next morning, when an almighty thirst gripped me, and my bladder felt it needed to explode with the disgusting weight of alcohol I had consumed. Although I did my best to pee as quietly as possible, Ruth was waiting outside the bathroom door when I had finished and forcefully ordered me downstairs with the statement, ‘We need to talk.’ Surprisingly enough, she didn’t give me the big sister speech when we got to the kitchen. Or complain about me eating everything in her entire goodie cupboard. Instead she hugged me and told me that she loved me. ‘It’s no reflection on you when a relationship collapses,’ she comforted me. ‘It’s OK. And you’re going to be OK. And Daisy will be no worse off without Michael in her life. You tried your best for her. Sometimes you just have to walk away …’
Having been full of opinions and grievances while bolstered with booze, now I was horribly sober. I listened to Ruth talk sense over a cup of hot chocolate, and as I watched the sunlight begin to filter in under the blind on the window I made her a promise. ‘I will try to find happiness and a future with Rory now. You’re right, sis, wallowing in Michael’s bad behaviour is just living in the past.’ I caught a few more hours sleep, and then reached for my phone and called Rory to apologize for my erratic behaviour, and for not answering his many calls and worried text messages. Taking it all in his stride, he too apologized: for having left his superhero jumpsuit at the dry-cleaners, and for not being able to fly over at short notice to hug me and make the world a better place for me.
Of course, just hearing his voice was a tonic. He had a comforting tone, and a way with words that instilled a confidence in me that I strangely couldn’t find in myself just yet. Maybe that would change in time? But, for now, I was a stronger person thanks to him. Knowing that he was always at the other end of the phone for a pep talk made me better able to cope with problems that would previously have consumed me and caused devastation and mayhem. For instance, following his practical advice I was going to seek out legal counsel on getting sole custody of Daisy, in the unlikely event that Michael had a change of heart.
With the serious stuff out of the way, my London lover was always quick to snap the mood back to naughty thoughts of sexy lingerie and intimate times we had shared. ‘This silly stuff keeps me sane during the day,’ he confided. ‘I hate being without you. In fact, I miss your skin so much I think I need to cheer us both up with some special Baxter lovin’ – in person.’ So, within three days of my Michael meltdown, Rory had me booked on an Aer Lingus flight to London. Although at first he had only said that he pined after me and that my trip over was merely a catch-up, it was when I texted him to confirm that I was safely on the plane that he texted back, ‘Wanna help me pack up the apartment so we can speed up my move to Ireland?’
He’d caught me totally off guard, and I let out a squeal of delight which seemed to frighten the life out of a neighbouring nervous flyer. I repeatedly apologized for scaring them further, and my smile continued to broaden, as the idea of getting Rory to Ireland and setting up home with him was equal to winning the Lottery for me. I didn’t want him to close off his past completely, as a fresh start was hardly something I could achieve, considering I came with the baggage of a child from my previous relationship. I was excited, though, about helping him box up his life and reopen it again in Ireland with me.
As I stepped out of Heathrow Airport into a black cab, not even the torrential rain that greeted me could dampen my mood in any way. Since the trouble with Bradley and Sir Charlie’s the city had felt like forbidden fruit, and I was excited, if nervous, to be back. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until the pilot said the words, ‘We’ve touched down,’ and I got goosebumps all over my body.
Sure, I was aware of being back on UK soil and frightened of seeing someone connected to Sir Charlie’s, but I was also on my way to see Rory to help him sort out his new life, and that just gave me the warmest feeling inside. After a very long taxi-ride in the morning traffic, I handed £65 over to the driver without complaint, and bounced up to Rory’s apartment. I was barely in the door with my jacket off when Rory declared, ‘I’ve a little present for you.’
‘Really?’
‘I have. Now close your eyes and hold out your hands.’
Obediently, I did as he asked. And as soon as I shut my eyes Rory started to explain, ‘The key to a good relationship is—’
‘Diamonds?’ I interrupted eagerly.
‘Sometimes.’ Rory chuckled. ‘But I was thinking more along the lines of this.’ Too impatient to wait for direction, I quickly opened my eyes to find a solitary key in my hands. ‘So here you go.’ He beamed proudly. ‘Keep it.’
Curious as to why he was giving me a key to an apartment he was soon hoping to leave, I said, ‘But you’re moving out. Why give me a key?’
‘This is not just any key. I suppose it’s a symbol of how open I am to you. I want you to have access to all areas of my life and my home. And, well, I haven’t moved out yet, so my castle is your castle. And, well, it’s also a holding key until I can give you the key to our family home. Which, my Irish rose, will happen very soon.’
‘Wow, well, thank you, Mr Baxter. I’m a bit overcome, I feel a bit emotional and quite the VIP.’
‘Good stuff, I’m glad you’re happy.’ Rory smiled as he quickly kissed me on the lips. ‘Because being a resident comes with responsibilities.’
Sure that he was hinting at sexual favours I cosied up to him playfully, ‘Oh, really? And what might those responsibilities be, exactly?’
Staring down at me with his sea-green eyes, he gave me a gentle loving squeeze before making the very unromantic comment, ‘Wifely duties, honey.’
Pretending to take offence, I joked in a high-pitched tone, ‘Excuse me?’
But he just laughed back, ‘Hop to it, girlfriend. Now get in that kitchen and whip us up some lunch. I’m starving!’
While I loved that he was cheeky enough to call my bluff, I put up a mini-protest, complaining, ‘I hope you don’t think you’ve bagged yourself some sort of live-in skivvy?’
‘Oh, of course not,’ came his response, after he had already watched me stick the key in my jeans and walk towards the kitchen. ‘But while you’re in there, I don’t suppose you’d load the dishwasher as well?’
Knowing that he was winding me up, I decided to play him at his own game, and teased, ‘Listen here, big boy. The only stacking I’ll be doing will be of my naked body on top of yours.’
‘Woo hoo! I’m happy with that arrangement. I suggest housework, and get the vision of a bare bum on my belly instead. Are all Irish girls as easy as you?’
Refusing to take offence, I came back out of the kitchen swinging a French bread suggestively, like it was a whip, and joked back, ‘Yes. All of us are. Whores, in
fact. It’s a trait passed down to us from our grandmothers. It was their way of surviving during the British invasion.’
‘Oh really?’ quizzed Rory. ‘Fancy role-playing a British invasion now?’
Waving the bread around again, I asked, ‘But I thought you were hungry?’
‘Oh, I am,’ came his suggestive reply. ‘Hungry for some good lovin’.’
That was it. Up to bed we went, Rory flicking on his iPod dock, and to the haunting tunes of Florence + The Machine, we made love several times. In between pillow fights we munched on plain bread, as neither of us had any interest in walking as far as the kitchen to retrieve anything to stick on it. It was one of those perfect afternoons that I never wanted to end. Any outside concerns, such as thoughts of job- or house-hunting, melted away in the warm haven of Rory’s arms. Eventually it was Rory’s landline, which refused to stop ringing, that dragged him out of bed.
Two work phone calls and a quick shower later and Rory was back badgering me. ‘Shake a leg! I thought you were here to help me pack up my old life in order to start a new one with you.’
‘I was. But then you sweet-talked me into bed again.’
‘Mmmm, come on, lazy bones, it’s time to get some work done. I can’t believe you’re not motivated about packing up all my treasures.’
‘Hey, I’ve seen some of your so-called treasures. Most of it looks like trash to me. As far as I’m concerned, hard work doesn’t pay off till far into the future. Laziness? Now that pays off immediately!’
Claiming that I had physically worn him out and so he was unable to lift me out of bed, he chose the tactic of food to lure me back out to the living room. It was a homemade pizza and smelt delicious. ‘Plenty of bacon, and extra cheesy!’ How could I resist? After too many slices and some gentle goading, Rory finally coaxed me into placing his books and knick-knacks into boxes. While I loved exploring the things that he held dear, and learning what made him tick, it was a large photo album on his bookshelf that really caught my interest. Not wanting to rush in without prior consent, I asked, ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
‘Of course. Go ahead.’ Not only did he agree, but he also sat down beside me on the floor to navigate me through them, explaining who was who, and when each photograph had been taken.
Having made my way through the college years, and some embarrassing yet hilarious photos of Rory as an awkward teenager – wearing boot runners, and American football tees down to his knees – we worked up through to his adult years, and, inevitably, photographs of him and his ex-girlfriends. But instead of loads of different women, I saw just two. One was a romance in America. The other was the love of his life, Nipa. As I turned the pages, jealousy didn’t consume me, but a memory did. Feeling the urge to clarify, I explained, ‘I know this woman. I’ve seen her before.’
As I stared at her photo, I could see why Rory had fallen in love with Nipa. She was adorable. She had the brightest smile, which seemed to light up her whole face. Goofing around in a casual Micky Mouse tee with mini denim shorts, her petite frame was of model proportions, but it wasn’t her body that was her most striking attribute, it was her energy. She also exuded a warmth that almost bounced out from the photograph.
‘Are you sure, Eva? I don’t remember Nipa ever being in Ireland.’
‘Nah, I’m almost sure I saw her. I’m good with faces. She’s stunning. How could I forget her? It’s her eyes, actually. I remember her beautiful eyes.’
Understanding how the female brain worked, Rory chose the diplomatic answer, and joked, ‘OK, this is the moment that I stay quiet, otherwise anything I say could be taken down and used against me at a later stage.’
But I wasn’t trying to trick him. I was sure I knew this woman, so, straining to remember, I closed my eyes and systematically worked back through all the Indian women I could ever recall seeing. ‘No, I’m serious, Rory,’ I persisted. ‘I know … I definitely know. Ah, I’ve got it,’ I finally blurted out. ‘I saw her in Germany earlier this year. The day I witnessed Tanya and Issey fighting.’
‘You couldn’t have,’ objected Rory, all serious. ‘She’s been dead two years now. It must have been someone who looked like her, or—’
‘No, it wasn’t. She looked straight at me. It was her. She had the same eyes. I know you think I’m mad, but I know what I saw. And it was definitely her. That was the day my whole life changed. That was the day that put me on the path to meeting you. Do you think it’s what you said about her name?’
‘What, that she watches over me?’
‘Yeah. You even said it yourself. Do you think she found me for you?’
‘I know I said that, but … As a man it’s a bit of a difficult concept for me to really comprehend, but maybe? All I know is that she was definitely dead when you were in Germany. But then again, how could I not believe that an angel found you for me? You’re perfect. And I’m sure that Nipa would agree.’
Hearing my phone ring from my jacket pocket in the hall, I raced off to answer it, leaving a confused-looking Rory questioning the universe. Feeling rushed, I didn’t take the time to check who was ringing first, and was more than just a little disappointed when I realized it was Bradley at the other end of the line.
‘Eva, can you talk?’
‘Not really, Bradley. I’m kinda in the middle of something.’
‘This won’t take long. Eva, I’ve got some news that I think you might be interested to hear.’
‘Oh yeah? You sound very serious. How bad is this news?’
‘It’s fucking terrible.’
I froze. ‘Oh no—’
Interrupting, Bradley explained bitterly, ‘Craig and Jake have been arrested for possession of Class A drugs with intent to supply. And no one has posted their bail.’
My heart started to beat again, and I asked, ‘So what does that mean?’
‘You’re off the hook, Eva. Lucky for you – but not me – our documentary has been shelved. Their trial could take a couple of years to come up. Who knows? But legally the programme cannot go out until the trial is over. And who the fuck is going to want to watch an old documentary about Sir Charlie’s unless these idiots become famous, eh?’
‘Ohhh.’
‘That’s it? I thought you would be happy. You’re free now, Eva. I suggest you skip making any further undercover documentaries and stick to making babies or whatever safe little job you would be happier doing.’
‘That’s patronizing, Bradley. But that’s also exceedingly good news.’
‘Good news for you, but not Brady Reel Time Films. We’ll go bankrupt. Well, that’s it. I’ve no more to say, other than have a nice life. I can’t imagine our paths will cross again soon, so—’
‘Yes, thank you, Bradley. I won’t expect a Christmas card, but thank you for the wild, incredible, life-changing journey that you put me on.’ I walked back into the living room and smiled at a still confused-looking Rory. ‘You’ve rocked my world more than you know,’ I continued. ‘And I thank you for setting me free once again.’
After hanging up I immediately ran into Rory’s arms and started weeping. ‘It’s over, honey … I’m free … We’re free. If Nipa is really watching out for you, tell her thank you. Because finally our tomorrow really starts here today. I never thought we’d get here, and I never thought I deserved a good man like you, but thank you for sticking with me. I can’t believe I’m finally getting the happy ending that has escaped me – until now.’
Acknowledgements
We’re all experiencing a recession right now, so to continue the cutbacks, here are my trimmed-down thank yous …
To my publishers and many editors at Transworld, all the team at Gill & Hess, all the major Irish booksellers – Eason, Dubray, Byrnes and Hughes & Hughes – thank you for all your support over the last few years.
Thanks to my long-suffering agent Ita O’Driscoll for sharing the headaches. To the Irish media, especially the Sunday World and Midday for all the shameless book plugs. To my fellow I
rish authors, such as Cathy Kelly, Patricia Scanlan, Claudia Carroll, Anita Notaro and Cecelia Ahern, for opening the gates for me to follow.
Thanks to my family and friends for the distractions and of course the all-important babysitting! Not forgetting my husband, who bears the brunt of most of my woes – thank you for understanding my long hours. I may sometimes be an absent wife, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less …
Lastly, my biggest thank you is for all the readers of Champagne Kisses and Champagne Babes who sent me messages at mad hours of the night through Facebook and www.amandabrunker.com saying, ‘I love your books. When’s the next one out?’ Your praise fed my desire to create more adventures and allowed me to lose myself in the naughty Champagne world of Eva Valentine. Although I ended up having more sex in my books than in my own bedroom, this Champagne trilogy kept me sane and endlessly entertained.
This book may be the end of Eva’s antics (for now) but there’s plenty more ‘raunch-lit’ from Ms Brunker to come. Cheers
Amanda Brunker is an Irish tabloid columnist and a former Miss Ireland. Glamorous and outspoken, she’s rarely out of the public eye. Amanda’s books have been bestsellers in Ireland, with her début, Champagne Kisses, reaching no. 1 in the Irish charts. Find out more at www.amandabrunker.com
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