I stand up and snap the curtains closed. Darkness engulfs the room and I instinctively reach my arms out in front of me as I feel my way towards the light switch. The floorboards of my Georgian house creak underfoot and I freeze, reminding me that I’m a thirty-seven-year-old woman who’s still afraid of the dark when she’s alone. Flicking on the light switch, I groan at my messy bed I didn’t have the energy to make this morning. The sheet twitches suddenly and my breath catches.
‘Jinx, you naughty boy,’ I say, calming as I pull back the bedding to find him chewing on the diamanté strip at the end of my elaborate duvet. ‘Stop that. Stop that now,’ I add, tapping him on the nose.
He yelps as if I’ve hurt him, and jumps off the bed to scurry out of the bedroom, his paws slipping on the highly polished walnut floor.
‘Silly boy,’ I say, making my way into my en suite bathroom to check on the bath I’ve left running.
I keep the door slightly ajar so I can listen for Jinx downstairs. Water cascades noisily into the almost-too-full tub. I hurry, and turn off the tap. It’s instantly silent, apart from the odd crackle and pop of luxurious, waiting bubbles. The bathroom window and mirrors are fogged as steam dances in the air. It’s a relief to sit on the edge of the bath, and I take care not to get my dressing gown wet and reach behind my neck to fiddle with my mother’s pearls.
Jinx begins barking downstairs and I wonder if he needs to go out for a wee. Typical.
‘In a minute,’ I shout. ‘I’ll let you out in a minute.’
Unhooking the finicky clasp, I close my eyes and smile with satisfaction. I wait for the familiar clink as I drop my favourite necklace into the china soap tray next to the taps. But there’s no sound. I open my eyes to find the pearls have fallen on to the bath mat. I bend awkwardly, my back objecting with an audible crack as I pick up my necklace that thankfully hasn’t broken. Standing upright again isn’t easy as my enormous pregnant belly gets in my way, and I grab on to the side of the bath for assistance. I’m standing, rubbing my back and mumbling curse words, when I notice the soap tray is missing.
Jinx’s barking grows louder and a door downstairs creaks open. I hold my breath as I wait for the next sound. Jinx is muffled when another door closes, trapping him in the kitchen, or the sitting room, I imagine. Someone is on the stairs; I can hear the old oak groan under a person’s weight. Step. Creak. Step. They’re coming. My grip on the pearls tightens and my heart beats furiously. The walnut bedroom floor creaks and I step back until my spine collides with the sink behind me. It hurts, but I don’t take my eyes off the door.
‘Jinx, come here, boy,’ I call, as if my little dog can rescue me.
The bathroom door handle rattles. Terrified and desperate to steady myself, I grab the sink edge behind me. Something pinches my hand. There’s a sharp, sudden sting in the fleshy part below my thumb and I drop the pearls. I hear them hit the tiles with a bang and I know this time they’ve broken but I can’t pull my eyes away from the door to check.
The door swings open and I scream. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Hey. Hey. What’s wrong?’ I hear Luke’s voice.
‘Oh God,’ I puff out, light-headed. ‘You scared me half to death.’ Steam separates us and I squint, trying to see my husband. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here, remember.’ He laughs, stepping forward and coming into view. ‘Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, so glad he’s here.
Luke smiles. ‘I brought you a little something. Don’t worry, it’s non-alcoholic.’
He’s carrying a bottle of open champagne in one hand, and a pair of crystal champagne flutes dangle upside down in his other hand.
‘But you’re not supposed to be home until tomorrow,’ I say, letting go of the sink to bend down and gather up the pearls that are scattered around my feet like shiny little marbles.
‘Your mother’s pearls,’ Luke says, and he sounds as disappointed as I am to see them broken. He crouches beside me to help. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I missed you.’
‘But the pitch. You’re supposed to be talking to Andrew Buckley.’ I pause to catch my breath. My hand is throbbing and my heart is still beating uncomfortably fast. ‘The meeting is tomorrow morning. We need that money or—’
‘He moved it forward,’ Luke says, grinning. ‘He just couldn’t wait any longer to hear our plans.’
‘And . . . ?’ My heart beats faster than ever, as I hang on his every word.
Luke raises the champagne bottle above his head with a triumphant air punch. Some champagne spills on his hair and he chuckles. ‘He loved it, honey. He’s going to give us the money. Darcy’s Dishes is safe. Everything is going to be okay.’
‘Really?’ I squeak, ecstatic, suddenly dying for champagne. But not the crappy glorified grape juice Luke has bought. I’d love to pop open the good stuff that we’ve been keeping in the liquor cabinet for a time like this. ‘He really liked us?’
‘Yes.’ Luke smiles, nudging closer. ‘He loved everything about the pitch. He liked my accent. Told me all about his grandparents. They were from Kent too. Not far from where I grew up, actually.’
‘Small world,’ I say, hating the feeling that washes over me. I wanted to be at the meeting. I wanted to hear a story about Mr Buckley’s English grandparents.
‘Mostly he loved you,’ Luke continues. ‘He loved your ethnic-minority-inclusive work environment. Your constant efforts to reduce your carbon footprint. He even loved those silly little labels you insist must be made from recycled paper.’
I drop my handful of loose pearls into my dressing-gown pocket and sigh. ‘I wish I could have been there.’
‘I know. But you’re supposed to be taking it easy. You know what the doctor said. Please tell me you spent today relaxing?’ Luke stands up. He sets the champagne and glasses down on the vanity unit behind me and reaches his hand out to help me up. On my feet again, he gathers me into his arms, taking care not to crush my enormous belly between us.
‘What about the gala dinner tonight?’ I say, realising for the first time that Luke is wearing his tuxedo.
‘I made an appearance, and then I hopped in a taxi home. It was painfully boring; a bunch of stuffy middle-aged men congratulating themselves on being millionaires. And once the deal was done with Buckley . . .’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not done until he signs on the dotted line, Luke. You really should have stayed at the party. It’s important to network.’
‘C’mon, Darcy, you know you’re the charming one – not me.’ Luke smiles. ‘Besides, I missed you. I was worried about you.’
‘And worried about the baby,’ I add, hating that it comes out snappy.
‘My amazing wife and soon-to-be amazing mother.’ Luke dots a kiss on the top of my head.
I grimace, not wanting to talk about the baby again and have another argument about maternity leave. Luke seems to think I need months off to look after our child. I’ve told him countless times, that, all going well, I could be back at work a week after the baby is born. He laughed, and I took that as an insult. I told him he could take time off to look after the baby. He laughed more and it really pissed me off. I didn’t tell him that Darcy’s Dishes is my business, my baby – the only baby I’m really interested in. I didn’t say it because Luke would be horrified to know how I really feel.
‘I popped into work for a little while today,’ I admit, knowing if I don’t mention it that one of the staff will probably let it slip anyway.
‘Darcy,’ Luke groans.
‘It was just for a couple of hours. I’ve been fine today. No dizzy spells, I promise.’
‘And the baby?’ Luke asks.
‘Kicking up a storm.’
‘Okay.’ Luke smiles, and I feel his tense arms relax. ‘But tomorrow is all about chilling out. No work. For either of us. Netflix and bed. All day. The new series of—’ Luke pauses dramatically and pulls away. There’s sudd
en panic in his eyes. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he gasps, pointing at a patch of bright-red blood on my dressing gown. ‘Oh Darcy. Sit down, honey. You need to sit.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s okay. It’s just my hand,’ I say, turning my palm over to show him. ‘I cut it on a broken tile on the sink. I think. It stings a bit but I’m fine. And the baby is fine.’
I turn to investigate where the broken tile must be. I hope the sink bowl isn’t chipped – that could be expensive to fix and without the investment from Mr Buckley we are so far in the red we are not only in danger of losing the business, we could lose our house too.
‘Just your hand,’ Luke says.
I nod.
Luke reaches for me again. ‘Okay, let me see. If it’s deep it might need stitches.’
‘It’s not deep, it’s just . . .’ I gulp, looking into the sink.
‘What? What is it?’ Luke says.
‘Oh God. Oh God,’ I exhale.
‘Darcy, you’re freaking me out. Will you just sit down?’ Luke cups my elbow in his hand. ‘Here, let me help you.’
‘Look,’ I say, trembling as I shake him off and point into the sink. ‘It’s the soap tray. It’s broken.’
Luke nods, looking. ‘Okay. No worries. I never liked that thing anyway. We can get a new one.’
‘I . . . I—’
‘Is that how you cut your hand?’ Luke asks, reaching for me again.
‘It wasn’t broken earlier,’ I say, staring at the shards of sharp, colourful china in the sink. ‘It was beside the taps when I started running a bath.’
‘Darcy.’ Luke uses the same tone every time he tries to pacify me.
‘I’m serious this time, Luke. I ran a bath and the tray was there. I saw it. Then I went back into our room to undress and Jinx—’
‘There you go.’ Luke nods. ‘That bloody dog probably knocked it.’
I exhale. ‘That’s your answer for everything. The dog. Blame the dog.’
‘He hates me, Darcy. Didn’t you hear him barking his head off when I came home?’
‘Yeah, but I thought—’
‘You thought it was someone breaking in to murder you.’ Luke rolls his eyes. ‘I know. We’ve been over this. Things moving by themselves. Thinking someone is creeping around the house in the middle of the night. Now, the soap tray. This is why I came home early. To take care of you. The doctor says it’s the stress. Your blood pressure is low, it’s making you light-headed and paranoid. I hate seeing you so worked up . . . if you’d just take it easy—’
‘My blood pressure didn’t move the goddamn soap tray, Luke!’ I snap, fed up that my husband’s answer for everything lately is blaming my difficult pregnancy. It’s been seven months of hell: chronic sickness that was supposed to go away after the first trimester, but I’m still puking at least once most days. Low iron, extreme fatigue and random dizzy spells and all the while trying to maintain a glowing outer image.
‘Do you hear that?’ I ask, as a loud bang sounds downstairs – a door closing.
‘It’s just Jinx,’ Luke says. ‘Listen. He’s scratching at the door. He probably needs to pee, again. I really don’t know how that bloody puppy pees so often.’
I loosen my dressing gown around me, the steam becoming irritating as it clings to my skin and hair, making me feel damp and clammy. I’m dizzy as I reach into the sink to gather up the broken china. Maybe I really did drop the tray into the sink. I’ve had a lot on my mind today, I was worried about Luke’s pitch and I’m always so on edge in this creepy old house when I’m alone. And with Tina on my mind . . .
‘Leave that, honey,’ Luke says. ‘I’ll tidy up. Let’s just get you into the bath, eh?’
Chapter Seven
TINA
Saturday 15 June 2019
Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ plays in the background of the hotel bar. I sit in a comfortable armchair swirling dark-burgundy merlot that I don’t intend to finish around my glass. I smirk, listening to the lyrics that seem to sum up my life. I do what I have to do.
It’s hard to believe that in less than fifty minutes by car I’ve left the hustle and bustle of Dublin behind and swapped it for this tranquil spot at the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains. I haven’t been somewhere this luxurious in years.
I really need to get out more, I decide. After this I’m definitely going to take up a hobby. I’ve recently signed up for Pilates. It wasn’t intentional. Last week at the gym, an overzealous staff member asked if she could help me. I was staring through the slender glass panels in the door watching the pregnancy Pilates class and she caught me off guard.
‘Are you looking to join this class?’ she asked as if people peeping into the studio happened all the time. ‘Are you a member?’
When I couldn’t think fast enough, she found words for me.
‘First baby?’ she said. ‘Everyone is always a little nervous about their first.’
I smiled.
She took my name and number and said she’d give me a call once she’d checked in with the instructor. It was only as I walked away that I wished I’d given her my real name. Pilates might be enjoyable. It’s such a convenient location – just around the corner from Luke and Darcy Hogan’s house. And since I’m going to be in the area plenty soon . . .
I’m dragged back to the here and now by my obsession with that man at the bar. He’s in his early sixties, I know; tall, charismatic and with a full head of silver hair. His tailored suit is offset by a dazzlingly white shirt, and he adjusts his polka-dot dicky bow every so often – I can only imagine it’s uncomfortably tight. Do people really wear dicky bows any more, I wonder. The man at the bar is certainly alone in wearing one tonight. But somehow, instead of appearing the odd one out, every other man seems underdressed in comparison. He laughs among friends, or colleagues – I’m not sure which they are, and they all guzzle gin much too quickly.
He doesn’t notice me watching. At one point a blonde woman in his circle glances my way and I stiffen, mistaking her for Darcy Hogan for a moment. But I quickly realise I’m wrong. The woman at the bar isn’t pregnant. She also doesn’t pay me any attention. To her I’m just another inconsequential woman, in an expensive dress, attending the evening’s event.
The man at the bar didn’t notice me watching him yesterday either in the lobby. He sat opposite Luke Hogan for over an hour. They both had their laptops open in front of them and even though there was minimal paper being shared it was obvious, to anyone glancing their way, that they were in the middle of a business meeting.
It was easy to study him in the lobby. I could hide behind my own laptop, sipping coffee as I cast my eyes over the screen to scrutinise him. It’s harder to maintain a view of him now. The offensively upmarket bar is heaving with people. Each more glamorous than the next in their expensive suits and elegant dresses. It’s the type of place Darcy belongs and I don’t. The hotel decor is equally over the top, with huge leafy green plants dotted sporadically throughout in oversized gold pots. No doubt they cost a fortune, but to me they are vulgar and cheap, and a bloody nuisance.
Every so often the man moves, just a fraction, tossing his head back to laugh perhaps or twisting at an angle to catch the bartender’s attention. And for a moment I lose him, as my line of vision is obscured by a large Grecian statue next to the bar.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ someone asks over my shoulder.
I shake my head without looking to see who’s speaking to me. It’s probably the annoying person who asked me the same question an hour ago. I gave her my attention then and I lost sight of the man. I had to hurry into the lobby, teetering on high heels that I’m not used to wearing. Thankfully I caught sight of him coming out of the loos, but I’m not risking taking my eyes off him again.
‘Are you a guest of the hotel, miss?’ she asks.
Oh for God’s sake.
‘Yes,’ I say, waving my hand to dismiss her. ‘Now please . . .’
She doesn’t say anything else and so
on I can no longer feel her shadow hovering over me.
Finally, the man at the bar glances my way and smiles. He’s noticed me at last. I sit a little straighter, making sure the plunging neckline of my dress is given optimum exposure, and I smile back. But he’s quickly distracted again by the blonde woman. I try to read her lips, but it’s not a skill I possess.
I’m sniggering to myself – misreading something to do with baked potatoes and wellington boots – when the voice from earlier interrupts me.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she says, and there’s a noticeable wobble in her tone as if I make her uncomfortable. I’m disappointed. The last thing I want to seem this evening is unapproachable. I probably shouldn’t have grunted at her earlier. I try harder now.
‘Yes,’ I say, turning my head towards the sound of her voice and very reluctantly flicking my eyes off the man and the blonde and on to her.
She’s carrying a single glass of red wine in the centre of a very shiny silver tray. The glass is different to the one already in front of me. Its stem is narrower and taller and the glass is finer and rounder. This isn’t house wine, I think, it’s the expensive stuff from the subtly lit, golden shelf behind the bar.
‘It’s from the gentleman at the bar,’ she says, pointing.
I glance back at the man. The blonde woman is gone, at last. He’s alone, swirling some lonely ice around the bottom of an almost-empty glass. He’s watching me nearly as intently as I’ve watched him for the past goodness knows how long.
‘Hmm,’ I say, flicking my hair back, off my shoulders. ‘I don’t usually accept drinks from strange men.’
‘Oh Mr Buckley isn’t a creep,’ she says quickly, as if it’s in her job description to defend him – or to reassure me. ‘He’s the owner of the hotel. He’s a lovely man. A really nice boss too.’
Keep Your Friends Close Page 4