Flying by the Seat of My Knickers

by Eliza Watson

  Declan turned and smiled, then shook the guy’s hand. “It’s grand.”

  Craic apparently didn’t refer to the illegal drug, or they wouldn’t be talking so freely about it in a pub.

  Declan introduced me to Kieran.

  “Saw your mum this summer. Said you hadn’t been home since Easter.” It was the beginning of October, six months since Declan had been home. “Been a few years since I’ve seen ya. Not since…” His smile faded. Declan’s eyes dimmed, and an awkward tension hung in the air.

  Not since what?

  Declan broke the silence. “Keep some stuff at my parents’ and my brother’s in London. My home is the hotel du jour.”

  I’d hate living out of hotels. I also wasn’t thrilled living with my parents. Moving from Milwaukee to my small hometown a half hour away had been for safety, as well as financial purposes, so I needed to suck it up for now.

  “Some big world traveler, are ya?”

  Declan shook his head. “Mostly Europe. A lot in Ireland.”

  Then why hadn’t he been home in so long? Ireland was a small island. A sheep could probably trot from one end of the country to the other in a day.

  Kieran’s grin faded into a solemn expression. “Suppose it ain’t easy being home now that—”

  “We should probably be off.” Declan knocked back half his pint in two gulps.

  Why wasn’t it easy for Declan to go home?

  And I wasn’t leaving before I ate my Irish stew, or I’d faint flat out from hunger or drinking on an empty stomach.

  “Oh, too bad.” Kieran smiled, too drunk to realize he was being ditched. “I’m visiting my brother here for the week. Give me a ring. We can meet up. Still the same mobile number.”

  Declan shifted his stance, looking uneasy. “I’ll ring ya if I have time. The week’s going to be a bit mad though.”

  Why didn’t Declan want to hang out with an old buddy or visit his parents? Was he trying to escape his life, the same way I was hoping to escape mine, if even only for a week?

  Chapter Three

  I arrived back at the hotel shortly before eleven, wide awake despite a pint of Guinness and a hearty Irish stew, since Dublin was six hours ahead of home and I was still jet lagged. I left Declan and Gretchen chatting by the door and headed across the lobby’s white marble floor toward the elevators. Light danced against a crystal chandelier hanging above a tall crystal vase displaying red and yellow flowers on a glass-topped table. The Connelly Court Hotel had a very modern feel, except for the black-and-white vintage Dublin photos on the walls. Upon learning of my trip, I’d checked out the hotel’s website, crushing my visions of an antique-filled historical building. My disappointment was short lived when I learned it was a five-star property, rates averaging $300 nightly. By far the fanciest hotel I had ever, and likely would ever, stay in.

  A guy approached me—mid-thirties, tall, dark hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. I’d had my picture taken with him at the welcome dinner. How had he recognized me without my sausage costume?

  “Do you know where the boarding pass kiosk is at?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what a boarding pass kiosk was. I assumed he was referring to an airline boarding pass. He’d just arrived today, and he was already making plans to leave?

  My gaze darted around the lobby, unsure exactly what I was looking for. “Ah…the boarding pass kiosk…”

  The hotel concierge was passing by and directed the man to the kiosk by the concierge desk. The guy walked off in the opposite direction, apparently wanting to be prepared for his departure. A bit OCD? I thanked the older gentleman in a dapper black suit and continued across the lobby. I was almost home free, the elevators in sight, when I locked gazes with Tom Reynolds, Brecker’s CEO, drinking with several attendees in the lounge. He waved me over.

  Heart racing, my first instinct was to duck behind a large marble pillar or towering plant, but I couldn’t pretend like I hadn’t seen him. What did he want? The only thing I knew was the location of the boarding pass kiosk. Not only did his CEO position intimidate me but also his confident and authoritative manner. He was late fifties, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, and dressed in tan slacks and a blue oxford shirt. I reluctantly headed into the lounge, furnished in dark wood and red tapestry cushioned chairs and barstools. I tried to win him over with a smile.

  He returned my smile, putting me slightly at ease. “What time’s breakfast?”

  I stood there dumbfounded, like he was interrogating me for Guinness’s secret recipe. “Um, I don’t remember. Let me call Rachel.”

  His smile faded. “Oh, no need to bother her this late.”

  Declan headed across the lobby, and I shot him a distressed look. He made a detour over to us and informed the CEO our group breakfast was from seven to nine daily. I flashed Declan an appreciative smile, said good night to the group, and fled toward the elevator.

  “Best to avoid the lobby until you’ve memorized the meeting agenda,” Declan said. “Take the second floor across to the other lift, then down to our office.”

  “Good tip.”

  “Don’t worry. The job will get easier. You’ll be grand by the end of the week.” He gave me a reassuring smile, relaxing a shoulder against the wall, waiting for the elevator.

  We rode the elevator up, Declan getting off a few floors before me. I opened my guest-room door and flipped on the light switch. My room remained dark. After flipping the switch a dozen times, I was about to head down to the front desk and advise the staff of my electrical outage, when a woman walking by said, “Insert your room key in the slot by the door. It controls the electricity.”

  I nodded thanks, having forgotten Ireland’s green measure to conserve energy.

  I stuck my key in the slot, and the room illuminated. I tossed my purse and black suit jacket on the red throw draped across the bottom of the bed’s white duvet. A black-and-white photo of a 1940s Dublin street scene hung over the headboard. I snagged the hotel’s white plush robe off the red upholstered settee by the window and slipped it on, relaxing in its velvety splendor. According to the slip on the robe’s hanger, I could enjoy the luxurious feel at home for a mere hundred euros.

  I booted up my laptop on the desk and Googled Karachi. It was in Pakistan. I had to start watching CNN. I then pulled up a map and located Budapest, refusing to let Gretchen make me look geographically challenged. I checked my spam folder for the dozenth time that day. Two weeks ago, I’d interviewed for an executive admin assistant job, similar to my last position. The interviewer and I’d hit it off, yet I hadn’t heard a peep. The job offer hadn’t slipped into my spam folder, so I checked my inbox again. No job offer and no responses from the thirty-one résumés I’d submitted. I blew out a frustrated sigh, dropping back onto the chair. I needed to send out more résumés, but I didn’t have the energy right now, and rejection was getting quite depressing.

  My travel journal sat next to the computer. I hadn’t written in it since the flight over, but I preferred not to document my Kildare Sausage debut. I set the meeting agenda on the nightstand, planning to have it memorized before bed. There was no avoiding attendees the entire meeting when my job was to assist them. A very scary thought.

  I slipped off my black socks and tossed them on the bathroom counter. Tomorrow would be day two for my socks and undies. Mom had washed a load of each last minute and set them on my bedroom chair. I’d failed to pack them. Luckily, Rachel had recommended packing an extra set of clothes in my carry-on. Today had been crazy busy with the group’s arrival. Shopping was at the top of tomorrow’s to-do list.

  I filled the sink with hot water, preparing to wash my socks and undies with the hotel’s lavender-scented shampoo. I eyed the other fancy amenities lined up on a silver tray, including soap in a purple floral wrapper. I glanced around for a price list, not wanting them to show up on my bill. Since they appeared to be complimentary, I had to remember to bring them home. Actually…I’d give them to Martha. The last time I’d visited Mar
tha, a counselor at a women’s crisis center, a lady had dropped off a supply of hotel toiletries. The women there would appreciate my little hotel luxuries.

  When I’d finally gotten up the courage to leave my ex, I was lucky I’d had my parents’ house to stay at when many women had to resort to a shelter with strangers.

  I stashed the lavender-scented amenities in my travel bag.

  I owed Martha a lot more than hotel toiletries.

  * * *

  I opened my eyes to total darkness. It took me a moment to remember I was in a Dublin hotel room, not at home. The clock on the nightstand read 2:00 a.m. Damn jet lag.

  A noise sounded at my door. I bolted upright.

  Someone was trying to break into my room.

  My ex had found me.

  Heart racing, I called the hotel operator and whispered into the phone. She assured me security would be right there. I hung up, and a voice echoed in the hallway, like from a two-way radio. I tiptoed over to the door and peered through the peephole at a security guard standing outside my room.

  I heaved a relieved sigh. It wasn’t my ex.

  Still, it didn’t make me feel real secure that security had been trying to break into my room. No way had he gotten there that quickly. However, maybe he was making his rounds, and had merely made a noise in the hallway, and my imagination was running wild, thanks to my ex. Andrew.

  The mere thought of his name caused an icky feeling to slither over me. However, Martha recommended I call him by his name. That referring to him as “my ex” was maintaining a connection to him. I preferred to think of him as a nameless, faceless ass, unworthy of a name. Although I could call him Andy, rather than Andrew, since it sent him over the edge if someone addressed him by the informal, unrefined nickname. He would force a strained smile and politely correct the person’s error while fuming on the inside.

  When I’d broken up with my ex…Andy…four months ago, he’d seemed sane, trying to talk me into getting back together. Sadly, he’d almost had me convinced. That proved how manipulative he was and how brainwashed I’d been. After weeks of him calling, e-mailing, and showing up at my office wanting to talk, I became a complete basket case and lost my job. Furious about being fired, I called and informed him that he had narcissistic personality disorder and he needed help. Despite my sociology degree, and a few psych classes, Martha had pointed out his issue to me. He became enraged and claimed I was the one with a disorder and hung up on me. That was the first time I’d heard him lose control. Even when we’d argued…Andy…had always been the calm one, making me look like the crazy person!

  I’d thought I was finally free of him, until three weeks ago when I sold a painting, by a Milwaukee artist, on Craigslist, and…Andy…turned out to be the buyer. Thankfully, we’d met in a public place. Even after I’d changed my e-mail address and cancelled all my social media pages, he’d still found a way to stalk me online. He’d accused me of stealing his painting, causing me to second-guess myself, even though I knew damn well I’d bought it. He’d always played these mind games that had me questioning my decisions and abilities, ultimately my self-worth and sanity.

  Angry that he was still trying to control and manipulate me, my survival instincts had kicked in. I threatened to have a restraining order served on him at work, hurting his chance of becoming partner at his law firm. I knew he was more obsessed with his career than he was with me. And I figured the mere threat of a restraining order was a wiser choice than actually filing one, giving him nothing to lose. He’d remained eerily calm with a strange look in his eyes and said, You’ll regret leaving me.

  Despite his stalking, I hadn’t taken his remark as a physical threat but rather that I’d have regrets because he was such a great catch. I still hadn’t believed he’d jeopardize his job. However, when I’d recounted the incident to Martha, she’d warned me to be careful, that you never knew what a person like him was capable of doing. Martha undoubtedly knew, since she worked at a women’s shelter. Her warning had haunted me for days, and his remark played over in my mind, becoming more threatening and the strange look in his eyes more psychotic. I hadn’t seen him since that day, yet sometimes I could still feel those crazy eyes watching me. But he couldn’t have found me in Dublin. I was overreacting, alone in a hotel room, in a foreign country, in the dead of night.

  I noticed the door’s security lock wasn’t on and slipped it in place. I pushed the desk chair in front of the door, along with the garbage can, my suitcase, and anything else not bolted down. I rifled through the dresser drawer for the pepper spray Mom had bought me after…Andy’s…stalking had gotten me fired. Her sister Dottie had been mugged while studying abroad in London thirty-one years ago, so she’d insisted I pack it.

  I stared at the small pink spray bottle in my hand. I’d packed defense spray but forgotten undies and socks. I let out a nervous giggle, somehow finding humor in the situation. Get a grip. Mom and Martha meant well, but they were making me unnecessarily paranoid.

  Weren’t they?

  Chapter Four

  I squinted back the faint daylight encroaching on my room through the open drapes. My stomach tossed, my head throbbed. Not only from the Guinness, but after the 2:00 a.m. security breach, I hadn’t fallen back to sleep until close to four.

  Wait a sec. Daylight? What time was it? I grabbed my cell phone. I’d set the alarm for p.m. rather than a.m.

  It was 6:00 a.m.

  I was due down in fifteen minutes!

  I flew out of bed, and my head about exploded. I zipped through the shower, washing only my flattened bangs. My hair was thick and several inches past my shoulders, so would take too long to dry. I threw on the hotel’s velvet robe, then blow-dried my bangs and tossed my hair up in a clip. No time for foundation, I brushed on pink blush and applied my signature Flirty Fuchsia lip gloss, giving my pale skin some color. A quick coat of black mascara and eyeliner magically made my eyes look bluer and gave the illusion that I was well rested. I threw on my uniform—a black suit and a white button shirt with a red embroidered Brecker logo. I wasn’t a fan of black and white, preferring bright colors. However, it made picking out my clothes easy when I was running late.

  I scanned the desk for my room key, then rifled frantically through my small black purse. I was about to leave without the key, when I spied it in the slot by the door. I snagged it, removed the chair and my entire security system from in front of the door, then flew down the hallway.

  Recalling Declan’s advice, I got off on the second floor and sped across to the other elevator bank, so I wasn’t delayed by attendees’ questions, despite having memorized the agenda. I took a few calming breaths so I didn’t look totally frazzled and entered the office, ten minutes late. I put in my earrings and blew stray wisps of hair away from my face. Rachel’s red manicured nails were tapping away on her laptop keys, her hair flat-ironed and styled, her black-and-white designer dress crisply pressed.

  Declan gave me a cheery smile. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, ignoring Gretchen’s smug look over my tardiness.

  Declan eyed my shirt with interest, discreetly gesturing to two open buttons exposing my white lace bra. I quickly finished dressing. Gretchen and Declan went to open breakfast, while I hung back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sitting next to Rachel. “I was so tired after security was at my door at two a.m., I slept through my alarm.”

  “Why was security at your door at two a.m.?”

  Ugh. As if Rachel didn’t have enough to worry about. I peered out the gold-draped windows, through the mist, at the weathered brick building across the alley. No choice, I met her gaze and told her the story.

  “I was probably just hearing things.”

  Rachel’s brow narrowed in concern. She grabbed the hotel phone on her desk and requested the head of security. While listening to the supervisor, her hard gaze relaxed, and she nodded in understanding. I stared at the red-and-gold patterned carpet, curious wh
at the person was saying.

  She hung up. “Security was at your door because it wasn’t shut tight and they closed it. My God, Caity, you have to be more careful. Always lock your door. There are a lot of weirdos hanging out in hotels.”

  Don’t talk to weirdos, Caity. Reminded me of the time I’d wandered off in a store after Rachel had instructed me to stay close, and she found me talking to a strange guy, in the candy aisle, of all places. Her panic had scared the bejeezus out of me, especially when she’d broken down crying and hugging me, telling me she never wanted to lose me. If she knew I’d feared it was my ex…Andy…at my door, she’d really be freaking out. Even though in the light of day, I didn’t believe he’d followed me to Dublin. He hadn’t taken a vacation since starting at the firm five years ago. Again, Andy would never jeopardize his job over me. Andy…

  A wave of nausea tossed my stomach, and I placed a comforting hand against my middle. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even use the nickname he despised without feeling ill.

  Sorry, Martha. I tried!

  Rachel had no idea that rather than incompetence, I’d been fired due to my inability to function while being stalked by my ex. She’d always thought he was a total ass, and he’d felt the same about her, using that as an excuse to isolate me from my family. Martha encouraged me to confide in loved ones, a critical step in the healing process. It took some women years to recover from the emotional damage and post-traumatic stress disorder, while some never fully recovered. I wanted to confide in Rachel, wanted to get better, yet I was ashamed to tell her how I’d allowed him to treat me.

  Martha insisted I shouldn’t blame myself for falling prey to a narcissist. He was at fault, not me. And that I also couldn’t allow people to blame me for staying in an abusive relationship, or tell me I should be fine now that I was no longer with him. Sadly, many people didn’t understand narcissistic abuse because rather than visible physical scars, it left deep emotional ones. So they were often unsympathetic toward the victims.