by Rosie Orr
‘Darling, angel,’ Jack kissed her back passionately. Wow – that was more like it. Almost made the rigours of hitching worthwhile. God, he hated the Irish, the only lift he’d been offered in the last couple of hours had been from a lousy tractor, if you didn’t count the ancient yokel who’d offered him a lift on the crossbar of his rusty bike, silly old fart. What a welcome – the old trouser snake was certainly making itself felt in no uncertain manner. Anna looked fantastic in that little blue velvet skirt, with that fuck-me hat with its sexy little wisp of black veil. With a bit of luck he might be able to get her to sneak into the rhododendrons with him in a minute. Mmm – he felt rather like Richard Gere in that film about the bloke who came back from the war. Pity Jodie Foster was so small and thin – no meat on her, reminded him of – hey, steady, Teale, the old trouser snake was deflating fast. He squeezed Anna’s bottom.
‘Oh Jack, I’ve got so much to tell you! You just won’t believe everything that’s happened –’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Me too, angel.’
She held him away from her and gazed at him. God, he must have been through hell with bloody Ruth. He looked terrible, even worse than after that time he’d try to teach the War Poets to the lower fourth and they all said they were pacifists and spent the whole lesson playing with their Game Boys as a mark of protest. His eyes were bloodshot; he hadn’t shaved; for some reason there was straw in his hair and his mac was covered in oil. She hugged him. ‘But everything’s all right now you’re here.’
They began to kiss again.
Declan rounded the corner of the hotel and stopped dead. Somehow the moment he saw Anna that morning he had a feeling … And when she’d bumped into him earlier, he’d kind of thought that maybe … Nothing he could put his finger on for sure, but just for a while there he’d thought, no, felt, that was it – as if he … she … no, they …
He turned away. Go back and get that shot of the old bat eating cake, man. It’s what you’re good at.
All you’re good for.
Anna held Jack away from her again, overcome with relief. She took in the way his hair seemed more thickly striped with grey than ever (what had that cow Ruth done to him?) and flopped into his eyes, the way his shirt was stained and wrinkled (she’d look after him now, poor lamb), the way sleep caked the corners of his red-rimmed eyes. (He was probably already missing his beloved kids. She only hoped she’d be worthy of such a sacrifice.) She kissed him gently. ‘So this means …?’
He nodded gravely. ‘Yes, Anna. I’ve left Ruth.’ He bowed his head. ‘For you.’
For her! She could hardly believe what she was hearing – it was a moment she had truly thought would never come. She closed her eyes, hating herself for ever having doubted him.
Jack heaved a sigh. Better get this over with, she’d be bound to want to know the whys and wherefores, they always did, then with a bit of luck they could have a quick one two in the bushes and head inside for some nosh. ‘I just couldn’t take it any more, angel. Love, pain – the whole damn thing.’ Wasn’t that the title of some play? Thank God he wasn’t talking to Ruth – she’d have spotted it right away. ‘Anyway, thinking of you going off on all your ownio to your son’s wedding, well, that was simply too much to bear. Teale, I said to myself, it’s got to stop here and now. Enough’s enough. Are you a man or a …’ Christ. How did the rest of it go? Louse, yes, that was it. ‘… or a louse. So I strode into the kitchen and told her I was leaving.’
‘You mean … just like that?’
‘Yup. Just like that. Told her I couldn’t live without you any more and she’d just have to make the best of it.’
‘But what – surely she must have …’
‘Oh, terrible scene. Terrible.’ He frowned, recalling way Ruth had screamed at him about the ketchup; the way she’d kept thumping the table while she listed his faults; the way she’d jabbed him in the back of the hand with Charlie’s knife. ‘Bloody woman was a complete virago. She tried to stab me, actually.’
Anna gasped, and held him close.
‘But I stood firm.’ He stroked her bottom again. He was feeling pretty firm right now, frankly.
‘It must have been awful, darling.’
‘It was, angel.’ He remembered the Scottie dog’s flashing eyes – the red and white candy-striped blouse. He shuddered. ‘It was.’
She held him closer, murmuring endearments.
‘But now, my angel …’ He slipped a finger between the buttons of her jacket. ‘Now love is here to stay.’
‘Oh, Jack! I never thought it would happen. I never thought Ruth would let you go!’
His stomach rumbled. Christ, he was hungry. ‘Me neither.’ His feet were freezing; his shoes were soaking. Ruined. And he’d never get these oil stains out of his mac. He shook his head angrily. ‘What she sees in sodding Peregrine I’ll never know.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Peregrine?’
He snorted. ‘Bastard’ll change his tune after a month or two of the twins drying their G-strings in the microwave and monopolising the bathroom for months on end … Still, at least it means you and I can have the house, angel … Oh, yes, I almost forgot. They’re leaving Spike, too.’
Anna was very still.
‘Who’s Peregrine?’
‘Father of one of her precious private maths pupils. Loaded, by all accounts.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Must be deaf, dumb and blind into the bargain, if he’s asked Ruth to go and –’
‘What, Jack? Go and what …?’
‘You know, shack up with him.’
‘You mean he’s asked her to marry him?’
‘Christ, I don’t think he’ll go that far. If you ask me the bastard just wants a bit of free coaching for his idiot son.’
‘So Ruth’s …’
‘Oh yes, I nearly forgot. They’ve both got a thing for cacti, apparently.’
‘Ruth’s leaving you?’
‘Well, put it that way if you like.’
‘Dear God! When I think of all the times you swore you were going to tell her.’
‘Matter of fact, I was just opening my mouth to give her the glad news when she jumped in with the Perry stuff.’
‘So you mean Ruth wants …’
He gave her a rueful smile. ‘Typical.’
‘Ruth said …’
‘Oh, come on, angel – why does it matter who said what and who to? To whom, rather.’ He tried to take her in his arms. ‘The main thing is I’m here now. Can’t tell you what hell the journey was to get to you – it’s taken days! Made that god-awful film The Road look like Mary Poppins! Even had to take a lift in some vile slurry cart.’
‘Oh Jack! I’m sorry!’ She moved into his embrace. ‘I’d no idea – honestly, it’s fantastic that you went through all that just for me.’
‘True love or what?’ He scowled. ‘Bloody nightmare it was, forced to hitch-hike like some vagrant …’
‘Never mind, sweetheart, you’re here now.’ Tenderly, she picked a clump of straw out of his hair.
‘Never mind?’ He scowled at her. ‘Going to cost a fortune to get this mac cleaned and my bloody shoes are a write-off. At least I won’t have bloody Ruth on my back asking questions. Till Perry gives her the push of course and she comes running back, and I’m forced to …’
There was a silence.
‘To what, Jack?’
When you’ve been together for ages you just sort of get into the habit.
‘Hey, come on, angel, what is this, the Inquisition?’ He tweaked the straw from her fingers and stuck it in her lapel. ‘Tell you what, let’s make mad, passionate love among the rhododendrons. You know we always said how romantic it would be to make love in the open air.’
She pushed him away. ‘You never intended to tell Ruth you were leaving her, did you Jack? You’re only here now because she told you she was leaving you!’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Anna. What difference does it make?’
‘What differ
ence …?’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You lied to me, Jack.’ She thought of all the other times he’d lied to her – not done what he’d said he would, let her down. ‘And the minute she decides she wants to come back, you’ll …’
She gave a cry of pain. He was worse than bloody Tony.
Declan, walking slowly back to the hotel entrance, heard the cry. He stopped.
‘How could you, Jack?’
‘Angel, believe me …’
‘Believe you? I’ll never believe anything you say ever again.’
‘Angel, you’re overtired. The stress of the wedding’s got to you. But I know what you need …’ He drew her to him.
‘No, Jack, I don’t …’
‘Come on, trust your Uncle Jack.’
‘No.’
‘Darling, you know you want to. Nobody’ll see us from the hotel, if that’s what you’re worrying about. What a dump, by the way, no wonder you’re feeling down. A spot of the old two-backed beast’s just what the doctor …’
‘No, I said!’ Anna pushed him away from her as hard as she could. Arms flailing, he fell backwards with a crash among the rhododendron bushes. He lay motionless for a moment on the wet, dark earth as raindrops showered down on him from the thick, glossy green leaves, then struggled to his feet, covered with bits of broken twig, and staggered out again.
‘Anna!’ A limp sac of bright pink rubber was clinging to his sleeve. Good God! It was a condom. What a stroke of luck – if he made a joke about it, Anna would see the funny side and relax a bit. He held it out to her. ‘Hey! Looks like they knew we were coming!’
‘Just go, Jack, all right?’
‘But darling …’
She turned away.
With a defeated sigh, he retrieved his case from behind the bush where he’d stashed it when he arrived. There was a sodding great oil stain down the side – damn tractor, he was glad now he hadn’t given the driver a tip. Bloody Irish … And what was vile smell? He looked down. There was shit all over his shoes. They were in more of a mess than ever. Christ, they were his best brown suede ones – he’d never get it all off! Bloody cats … He looked at Anna. Her back was still turned, so there was no point in giving her his little boy smile, but it was worth one more try. ‘Anna?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m going now.’
She didn’t move.
Bloody women. He began to slink away.
As he disappeared out of sight past the rhododendrons, Anna turned – made to go after him –…
must be deaf dumb and blind.
She stopped herself.
Declan stood watching helplessly, concerned at seeing Anna so distressed.
The scrap of pink rubber lay on the grass where Jack had thrown it. Lord, they were everywhere – was there something in The Grand’s water? She could see now it was the same as the one she’d seen in the foyer fireplace the night she arrived. Was it only yesterday? It seemed like years. God, she’d been deliriously happy then compared to the way she felt now. There seemed to be writing on it; odd, she’d never seen writing on a condom before. Maybe it was a warning from the Pope, or something. She bent down. A lot of stars, and something about ears … Picking it up between thumb and forefinger, she stretched it out. In gold ink rendered almost illegible by the recent rain, she could just make out the words MARY AND JOSEPH, 50 HAPPY YEARS. Fifty happy …? Of course! It wasn’t a condom – it was a balloon from the Golden Wedding party that had been held at the hotel on Friday night.
She stared at it, tears running down her cheeks.
Once she’d been certain a day would come when there’d be a party with champagne, and cake, and balloons bearing the legend ANNA AND JACK, JUST MARRIED.
She’d been a fool.
After a while she went and sat down on a nearby bench; she’d have to compose herself before she could even think of going back to the reception. Better clean herself up a bit, too. She couldn’t recall tears and snot being mentioned among Bride’s ‘Natural Look Suggestions for the Mother of the Groom’. After a futile dab at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, she rummaged in her bag in search of a tissue. Notebook … diary … wallet … keys … make-up bag … pens … fruit gums … Oh, for God’s sake, there must be one here somewhere. She groped irritably down to the next layer. Old notebook … spare tights … tampons … old Avant Art brochures … envelopes … Oh, this was ridiculous. She’d have to turn the whole thing out, she’d be here till dark at this rate. Quickly, she upended the bag onto the bench, fielding the contents deftly as they threatened to spill over the edge onto the wet grass. At last, a tissue. A bit grubby, with what looked like a very old toffee stuck to one corner, but absorbent, nevertheless. She’d blotted the worst of the mess from her face and was reaching for her make-up bag when she caught sight of the envelopes that had spilled out with the rest of the junk. Odd that they were unopened … Of course, it was the mail she’d stuffed in her bag yesterday morning when the taxi came. Listlessly she picked them up and riffled through them. Pretty much par for the course; a couple of bills, a postcard from Greece depicting a temple against an impossibly blue sky from her friend Polly, and a stiff white envelope bearing the logo WILD HORSES in bright scarlet.
WILD HORSES, as in well-known poetry press.
WILD HORSES, as in well-known poetry press to which Barry had submitted twenty-five of her poems.
Anna almost laughed aloud. It had to be a rejection; everyone knew it took months for submissions to the major poetry presses to be considered. They’d replied too quickly for it to be anything else. Still, after the day she’d had she simply didn’t care. Ripping open the envelope, she took out the letter.
Dear Ms Hardy,
Further to receiving your submission of twenty-five poems, we are pleased to inform you that we would like to discuss with you the publication of a collection of your work, to be entitled subject to your agreement The Rules of Love (with reference to the key sonnet included in your submission). We should be interested to see any new poems that you might have completed, with a view to their inclusion.
We shall be in touch in the next two weeks to arrange a meeting.
With all best wishes,
Roger Johnson (editor)
Jack had been right about one thing; the stress of the wedding had definitely got to her. For a minute she’d actually thought the letter said they were going to publish her work. Oh well, be grateful for small mercies – at least nobody had been there to see her make a fool of herself by misinterpreting it. Better read it through once more and check.
She scanned the letter again.
Put it down.
Picked it up.
Read it a third time, very slowly.
Let it fall from her nerveless fingers.
Then with a whoop that caused the rooks to scatter from a nearby copse in alarm, and the hotel cats to burrow deeper beneath the rhododendron bushes as they slept off their lunch of filched pheasant bones, she jumped to her feet, and radiant with joy, threw her bag high into the air.
Declan gazed at Anna, transfixed, mentally registering the action as an exquisite montage of black and white stills, but – for almost the first time in his professional life – ignoring the camera slung round his neck.
This was a moment he wanted to share, not record.
He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt like that, God help him. He was desperate to know what she liked to eat. Did she drink Guinness? What was her favourite book? Colour? Animal? Did she like Father Ted? Did Burn After Reading dissolve her in tears of mirth, too? Did she like to travel?
Not to put it too fine, as his friend Finn would say, he wanted to get to know her. Too see her smile like that, one day, for him.
Slowly, he started to walk towards her.
He’d begin by asking her name.
Anna finished shoving her belongings back in her bag and looked up, startled. It was the wedding photographer, Declan – Declan O’Halloran. Tina must have sent him t
o look for her, probably time for yet more group photographs. Damn. She hoped he hadn’t seen her making a fool of herself …
The publisher’s letter was still lying on the grass where it had fallen. Picking it up quickly, Anna thrust it into her bag.
Then, trying to look composed, she went – slowly at first, but for some reason she could not for the life of her explain, with gradually increasing speed – to meet him.
THE END
I Do?
Karen King
Local journalist Cassie is getting married to hot-shot, reliable Timothy and his mother Sylvia nicknamed ‘Monster-in-Law’ wants to plan the entire wedding. When Sylvia books the exclusive ID Images to take photographs of the extravagant do, Cassie has no idea what she’s walking into.
The elusive JM, ID Images’ newest photographer, just so happens to be Jared, Cassie’s first love and ex-fiancé, who broke off their engagement to travel and take photos of far-reaching wonders. He’s back to pay for his next wild adventure.
Cassie decides it’s best to pretend not to know him, but when she’s asked to write an article for her newspaper, she’s tasked with a column surrounding all things wedding related. When Cassie jokingly writes a column meant for herself depicting her situation, a co-worker submits it in place of the real article and it’s soon making headlines, with readers asking the age old question - Who Will She Choose?
For more information about Anna Legat
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
ISBN 9781910939246
Copyright © Rosie Orr 2016
The right of Rosie Orr to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN