“This all happened so quickly. How . . . Like, how? What the hell?” My head is swimming.
“He could have HIV – we could both have HIV . . .” She sobs.
“Jesus Christ,” is all I can manage.
“I’ll get my bloods back this week.” She drains the glass.
I say nothing. It’s like someone has hit me over the head with a brick. My thinking is completely muzzy. She looks at my panicked expression.
“Yeah.” She forces a wink. “Lucky me, hey?”
“What are you going to do?” I ask her. It’s just so hard for me to take in. I always knew Claire was a bit more into Martin than he was into her, but I never for a second doubted he loved her.
“He’s taking the antibiotics so that should help with the gonorrhoea, but he’s still got the flu. He wants to talk tonight . . .” She has to compose herself, get her breath back. I just slowly nod. “I will talk to him, but I have to be brutally honest, Courtney, I don’t know if I can handle any of this. I’m sick to the pit of my stomach. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept.”
I exhale the longest breath and shake my head. I am still lost for words. I just don’t know what to say, but I have to say something.
“Does he still want to be married to you?” I ask.
“He does. He says he loves me, more than anything, but that he’s always been bisexual and just hid it from me. He’s asked me to accept him.”
“And you never had any suspicions?” I have to ask.
“None.” She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. I pull a tissue out of my back pocket, then think again and hand her the rest of the packet.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
“No idea . . . Although I guess it won’t be that much of a shock to other people. I mean, look at me, Courtney. What man would actually fancy me? Perhaps I’ve just been his beard all these years.” She looks up at me.
“Stop . . . Don’t do this to yourself,” I say, with a massive lump in my throat as I reach across for her tears and wipe them away. She blows her nose.
“I know people used to think that about me and Martin, Courtney, even when we were kids dating. Martin was so attractive and into fitness. I know people thought it was strange he picked me. I was never up to his standard. ‘What does yer man see in the fat chick?’ I heard that more than once when I was waiting on the sidelines cheering him on at basketball.”
The floorboards creak and we both jerk our heads up. Suddenly it’s like there’s a stranger upstairs.
“I’d better go. This is your private business, Claire, I really shouldn’t be here right now. But you know where I am if you need me.”
She nods.
“Claire . . . How do you feel about Martin? Do you still want to be with him?”
“I think I need time to think before I can answer that one, love, okay?” she says, giving me a brave smile.
I give her a huge, bone-squeezing hug, take up my bag and move towards the door. She follows, passes me in the hallway and opens the front door for me. I step out into the welcome warm May air.
“And the worst part of all of this is that I gave up ever having children to have him.” Claire looks around the garden as if seeing it for the first time.
“Oh Claire, I’m so sorry.” I shut my eyes tight for a second, and when I open them, she has already closed the door.
5
“Final call for Aer Lingus flight EI552 to Newquay, now boarding at Gate 4C,” the airport tannoy announces.
“Oh come on!” I throw my hands up in the impossibly slow-moving “Grab and Fly Coffee” drinks queue I’ve been standing in for about fifteen minutes. I move away, empty-handed, towards my gate. I am not good without my morning cup of coffee. Like, seriously. Usually Hajra, the nurse at Granny Alice’s home, gives me a strong cup, but she wasn’t on this morning, plus Tom was there early today for some reason, so I just left without, planning my coffee at the airport. I’ll get one on the plane, I suppose.
Airports are beginning to become places I no longer like. I used to adore them. Probably because Granny Alice and I never left Ireland, and when I did get to an airport on my first holiday, on my honeymoon, aged twenty, to Majorca, it felt like the most exciting place on earth. Now, between the length of time it takes to get through security and the horrible, ominous vibe airports have hanging over them, I’m not as keen any more.
Moving towards the gate area, I catch a glimpse of myself in the long airport mirrors. The look is what you might call “business dress”: at least that’s what I’m hoping. My long blonde hair is GHD-straightened and sleek, pulled back into an Yvonne-style low ponytail. I’m wearing black patent shoes with a small, sensible kitten heel. The suit is tapered, with three-quarter-length black trousers and a smart suit jacket, teamed with a plain white T-shirt. As I step carefully onto the moving escalator, I hold onto the black handle of my small case tightly, standing on the right-hand side so others can freely pass me. I let a slow breath out and try to get my head together. So much is swimming around in it.
It took me two large glasses of red wine and several drops of Rescue Remedy to get to sleep last night, and the night before. Susan, as I’d correctly guessed, had been overjoyed when I told her that I was going to Cornwall on a work overnighter and that she would be staying with Dad in Mar-nee’s apartment on Wednesday night. She’d actually squealed and hugged me. They were the first words we had spoken since our row on Sunday afternoon in the kitchen.
People push past me, running, panting, stressed. I inhale again. It’s not like my nerves aren’t on absolute edge already. Why I didn’t cancel this trip, I do not know. Claire needs me, Granny needs me, and I’m leaving Susan in Mar-nee’s dangerous hands.
I didn’t see Claire yesterday. I called and texted, but she just said she was okay and that she had talked to Martin. I didn’t get any more details, but we are going for dinner on Friday night so I will hear the rest then. I still can’t get my head around all this. She thinks she will have her blood work back today, so I will check in with her later. I wonder how Martin feels, knowing I know all this too. How could he do that to her? I get his sexuality isn’t a choice. That’s not my issue. It’s his blatant dishonesty and cheating. I hope I won’t regret this trip. I get feelings like this a lot – I’m a big believer in “things happen for a reason”.
“Excuse me!” A man with a briefcase slams it into my thigh as he passes by and I let out a scream. It bloody hurt. He runs on. No “I’m terribly sorry, are you okay?” or “Apologies, I’m in a dreadful hurry.” Nothing. Nada. He reminds me instantly of my uncle Tom. Rude. Uncaring. I rub my leg and step off the travelator. I limp for a second before my body adjusts to the pain, then I just get on with it. I bruise like a peach, so this should be a good one.
At Gate 4C, people are already boarding, so I hand over my boarding pass to the male cabin-crew member and make my way down the black tunnel towards the aircraft. I struggle to get a space for my case in the holding area as it’s already quite full, but I bash it in somehow.
As I settle into my window seat and click my seatbelt shut, I open my bag and take out the paperwork. Simple enough: we need the town hall to sign off on the office opening and closing hours we are planning. Lar and I thought it might be a really good idea to have late-night opening on Thursdays and Fridays to take advantage of tourist families who might be out for walks together to wander in. It is this issue the council needs to talk to us about.
The new office was a post office building many moons ago, by all accounts. I haven’t seen it yet. Then there’s the matter of furnishing the apartment – maybe my apartment – above it. The thought makes my stomach lurch in excitement. Things like this don’t happen to me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid there will be no hot drinks served on board today – we have a technical issue with our water boiler,” the male cabin-crew member who took my boarding pass now announces.
Ah, come on. What are the cha
nces? Politely, I watch as he demonstrates the safety procedures and I order a sparkling water and a chocolate croissant when the trolley comes round.
No one sits in the middle seat, so it’s a comfortable journey over and before I know it Newquay is laid out below me like a patchwork quilt of greenery. I quickly put away all the paperwork and, with my nose pressed up to the thick glass of the small oval window, I admire the blinding blue of the sea. It’s good to be back. This Tony Becker man is collecting me. I think back to the phone call we had last night before I left the office.
“It’s a one-hour-and-fifteen-minute flight, so I’ll land in Newquay at half past three in the afternoon.” I read the details out to him as I managed my booking, checking in online, then printing off my boarding pass.
“Sound.” He seemed to be scribbling something down. That’s sensible, I thought. One of these perfectionists, I bet.
“So I’ll see you then, Tony. We can go straight to the town hall. I’ll check into my hotel after we finish all that needs to be done. Go see the new office, and was it a Brian Fogg’s furniture place, did you say? I’m happy to grab a taxi outside after we go there so I won’t need you.” I folded the boarding pass in half and slipped it into my large diary.
“Huh . . . ? Yup, sound,” he replied.
“All right, thanks, Tony.”
“Yeah . . . yup, sound . . .” He’d hung up as he was still talking.
There’s a niggly feeling I have that I’m not going to like this guy. He doesn’t exactly seem personable. At least his work is nearly done, and if I do take the job for the summer I’ll have no reason to talk to him again.
The seatbelt sign is switched on now and the pilot informs us we are about to land. Putting all the drama from home to the back of my mind, I bounce slightly as we hit the clouds coming down and tell myself to concentrate on the next twenty-four hours. The calm blue sea waves up at me and I’m beginning to feel excitement now at the fact I’m going to see Cornwall and St Ives again, and that I might be able to spend a glorious summer here on my own with Susan.
The landing is smooth and we disembark via the rear of the aircraft. Newquay airport, I remember clearly from my last visit, is like a small metal shed. It’s located on the north Cornish coast and was a former tactical nuclear bomber base, but the most brilliant thing about it is how small and easy to navigate it is. My type of airport. I compare it with the chaotic mess that was Dublin airport on my way out and I breathe a Cornwall sigh of relaxation.
A twenty-four-minute commute is next, so Tony and I can discuss the paperwork on the trip up to St Ives.
Nipping into the ladies’, I give my hair a brush and redo my ponytail, and I also smear some tinted pink gloss on my lips. I make my way to arrivals, which seems very quiet, and look around for a man standing on his own holding a card with either my name or the company name. There are no men on their own. There is a Chinese lady eating a Cornetto, a stressed-looking family and a young guy holding a fairly withered-looking bouquet of red roses. I lean against the rail and set my case between my legs, then check my phone for both the time and messages. It’s nearly a quarter to four: maybe he was giving me time to get through to this side. I’d literally murder a coffee and there is a Starbucks right down the end of the hall, but I’m afraid to move in case he arrives and we miss one another. I text Susan, so she’ll get it soon after school. And then I wait, and I wait, and there is no sign of anyone coming to pick me up.
Eventually, at twenty past four, I call his mobile. It goes directly to voicemail. I’m very conscious that the town hall probably closes at five o’clock, so I leave a message.
“Tony, it’s Courtney Downey. I’m assuming you aren’t coming to pick me up as arranged, so I’m going to take a taxi to the town hall immediately. I will wait there for you.”
End call. What a total and utter arsehole. I wouldn’t mind, but he was the one who suggested he collect me in the first place. My phone rings out. I wonder what his pathetic excuse will be, but it’s not him, it’s Celine, the party organiser for Susan’s celebration in the GAA club. She is just looking for final numbers, which I give her. Only three place cards for the vegetarian burgers: Mar-nee, David and the birthday girl herself. God, I really hope Susan is going to enjoy this party.
Outside it’s turned cloudy, but the air is incredibly warm and scented. Deciding to hang on for another few minutes, I lean up against the white “Welcome to Newquay” airport wall, then I check my phone one last time before I take the first taxi in the queue and give the address of the town hall. It’s located just off the main shopping area, on Fore Street.
I hardly take in the breathtakingly beautiful rugged scenery as we travel; all the time I’m checking my phone from any news from poor Claire. What is she going to do now? How could Martin have been so cruel, so careless? What he’s done is unforgivable. The worst part about it all is I know Claire will be heartbroken for life: that’s how much she loved Martin. Nothing I can say or do for my wonderful friend will help her, and that breaks my heart too.
The taxi man starts to make pleasantries with me, so I put my phone away. We discuss the next few days’ forecast and he recommends places to eat. It’s a very interesting discussion, as he tells me he was once a chef.
“Many moons ago, dear, family business t’was. I got out!” His right arm comfortably leans out the open window. His accent is wonderful to my ears and I tell him this.
“Well, the West Country accent is full of dropped Hs and the TV world would have you think we all speak like Worzel Gummidge, but we don’t. I love our history in language. Unique sounds, yes, but I also love the words and sayings we still have from back in the fourteenth century, like ‘stank’. We love to use that word. If you’ve been for a tough walk, you will be heard saying, ‘That was a good old stank now, wasn’t it?’ Unique.”
I nod as I read his ID badge, which is pinned to a picture of three smiling young boys. His sons, no doubt.
“That’s fascinating. But the cheffing . . . the restaurant business, is it hard work, Steve?” I’m looking for confirmation, not really asking a question.
“Tis hard hours, yes, but I loved it. I grew up in St Ives, you know, and although we are celebrated for our Cornish pasties, we also have some incredible fine dining. My grandmother had a restaurant close to the waterfront in the old fishing quarter. It’s a fish restaurant called Meloria’s nowadays, lobsters and crabs caught from the nearby quay. My youngest brother runs it, in fact. No easy task keeping the business a success, with the variety of seafood places here, but he’s a determined-enough lad.” The back of his head sprouts tufts of grey hair. I focus on his ID picture again. Steve has a long grey goatee beard and eyes that laugh.
“I could live on seafood,” I tell him. “My greatest dish is a seafood linguine. My granny used to make it.” The windows in the back are also rolled down and the seaweed scent fills the big taxi.
“Meloria’s is somewhere you should eat at then, love – does sea bass, scallops, oysters, and it’s overlooking the ’arbour. Jessica, one of the chefs, does the best seafood linguine. Keep my brother’s pockets lined, too! Would be very nice of you.” He chuckles.
He pulls up to the town hall, and when he stops, I put away my notebook and pay my fare. Steve jumps out and opens the door for me. Ha! Good to see chivalry is not totally dead.
“There ya go, it’s that building right there.” Steve points, then shakes my hand warmly.
“Thanks, Steve,” I say, and turn.
“Hang on,” he says, and I face him again. “Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Kate Winslet” – I wait – “in Titanic?”
“Yeah, I get that a bit.” I laugh.
The town hall is a small, whitewashed building with a large green door. There are some local kids playing with spinners on the little red brick wall that surrounds it. It’s situated at the very end of Fore Street, and I see visitors strolling up the cobbled street as I make my way inside.
“At bloody last!”
A man jumps up. A larger-than-life man. So all-consuming is his presence, I feel a bit weak at the knees. My brain goes underwater for a few seconds. He’s about six foot three, a tower of a man, burly, and absolutely, completely and utterly drop-dead gorgeous. This man would not look out of place on the big screen. I was not expecting this. Tony Becker is sex on legs.
“Excuse me?” I finally shake the water from my brain and drop my suitcase. The cool, air-conditioned foyer is empty apart from the two of us.
“Courtney Downey, I’m presuming?” he booms at me. I feel about two feet tall beside him.
“Y-y-y-yes . . . You are Tony?” I manage as I look up at him. My mouth feels so dry. I suck both my cheeks to drain some saliva.
“Yeah, I am, and you were supposed to be here an hour ago. I checked your flight. It was in on time; as a matter of fact, with the winds you landed six minutes ahead of schedule.” He stuffs his hands deep into his jeans pockets. I see the silver buckle on his belt and a flash of flesh. My head bobs up and down until I rest on his face again. I’m a total mess. What is going on here?
“Well, you were supposed to collect me from the airport!” I blurt. Because I feel all sorts of uncomfortable, I’m bloody mad now.
“Eh, no, I wasn’t actually. I distinctly remember you saying on the phone you would take a taxi and that you didn’t need me.” He stares down at me.
“I did not!” I slap my side in annoyance, then wince because I’ve just hit my fresh bruise.
“You did too.” He slaps his.
“I didn’t though!” I shake my head wildly.
“Appears you did!” He snorts and makes what I perceive to be pretend growling noises at me.
“Oh my God, you are so annoying . . .” I huff.
“Oh my God, so are you!” He imitates me with a smirk on his face. “Tell me, have you ever been arrested or charged with a crime?”
Before I can retaliate I hear, “Tony, are you both ready?”
The Importance of Being Me Page 8