‘The owner. Wow,’ I say, my eyes wide as if I didn’t already know.
‘Yup. He bought this place a few years ago. It was a real tip before then. Now it’s a five-star.’
‘Hmm.’
She reaches for the glass while looking at me and I nod, letting her know it’s fine to set it down on my table.
‘Can I tell Mr Buckley it’s okay to join you so?’ she asks.
‘Does Mr Buckley usually join women, on their own, and buy them wine?’
She shuffles awkwardly. ‘He never does this,’ she says. ‘I think you’re just lucky.’
I swallow and try to hide my disgust at her idea of luck. Doesn’t she see that Mr Buckley is old enough to be my father?
‘I should probably warn you . . .’ Her eyes narrow and she lowers her voice. ‘He’s a little bit tipsy.’
I smile. Perfect.
I watch as he clicks his fingers and within seconds the barman replaces the empty glass in his hand with a new one, a slice of lime wedged among chunky ice cubes. He takes a large mouthful and walks towards me.
The girl beside me bends, and whispers in my ear. ‘He’s Andrew by the way. His name is Andrew Buckley.’
I suppress a smile. I know.
I uncross my legs as he walks closer. The girl winks at me, and leaves. And I know she wishes she was in my shoes. Silly girl. I cross my legs again, switching the one on top, and the slit in my dress gapes, exposing my tanned calves and lower thigh. I don’t miss Andrew’s gaze dropping to the parted material before he shakes his head as he disapproves and looks away.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asks, placing his hand on the back of the chair opposite me, and I notice he’s not wearing his wedding ring. I wonder when he stopped.
‘Be my guest,’ I say, enjoying the irony – this is his hotel, after all.
He places his drink on the table and drunkenly helps himself to the seat opposite me. His misty eyes are on me, waiting for me to introduce myself.
I cough gently and say, ‘I’m—’
‘Lonely,’ he cuts across me.
Disconcerted, I stiffen and jut my chin forward, my confidence suddenly rattled. I worked so hard on my hair and make-up, getting the look just right. I used old photos to guide me. Although her hair was longer then than mine is now. But people change their hair all the time, don’t they? I look so much like her. But obviously not enough. It’s taken a single word from Andrew to remind me that I’m still me, and still inferior. I roll my shoulders back and push my self-pity aside. I’ve managed to pique Andrew’s attention enough to bring him to my table. Now, I just have to keep him here.
‘My name is Tina,’ I say, leaning forward and extending my hand across the table. He shakes it. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Andrew. Andrew Buckley,’ he replies. ‘The pleasure is all mine. Where are you from? Not local – I’m guessing.’
‘Kent,’ I lie.
‘Really?’ He sounds surprised and I hope I’m getting the accent right. My thick Belfast twang is a hard one to disguise even though I’ve been practising. ‘You’re the second person I’ve met tonight from that neck of the woods,’ he says.
An awkward silence falls over us. It’s unsurprising. Is it ever easy for two strangers to strike up conversation in a bar? I let it hang in the air for a moment, waiting to see if he will make the first move. When he doesn’t, I slowly lose patience.
I count backwards from three in my head, so I don’t seem too eager, and I say, ‘Thank you for the wine.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ He looks at the wine he’s bought that I haven’t yet touched and then at the glass I already have, which is at least a third full. ‘You’re not much of a drinker.’
Andrew seems compelled to tell people what they are not. Not a drinker. Not a local. Let’s hope he has no idea what I really am.
I giggle, acting shy or embarrassed while I try to decide what the best way to play this is. Should I admit I do drink? Regularly, actually. Spirits, mostly. A couple of neat doubles is usually sufficient to numb the mind. Wine, on the other hand, I rarely bother with. It’s bitter and I can’t bear the hangover the next morning. But I need Andrew to like me and a headache tomorrow is a small price to pay.
‘It’s been quite a couple of days,’ I say, settling on a response. ‘I’m still not quite right after the party last night. I drank much, much too much. It was embarrassing, really.’
‘You were here last night?’ He doesn’t believe me.
‘I was. Or at least I meant to be. But I met someone and well, we got a little carried away.’
‘Oh.’ His eyes widen as he catches on. I’ve shocked him. I hold my breath, not sure what way this will go. ‘I suppose you’re only young once. It was a bit different in my day,’ he says. ‘I knew my Margret a year before we . . . before . . .’
He’s talking about his wife and there’s such fondness in his voice. It’s almost believable that he actually loved her. Or loved her at one point, at least.
‘Well, I guess times are different now, eh?’ he sighs.
I don’t reply. I’ve nothing to say to something so obvious.
‘So where is the lucky fella now?’ he asks, looking around as if he would recognise him if he saw him.
His stupidity irks me. I know to blame the gin and I remind myself that I will be glad of his intoxicated state later. I reach for the glass of wine he bought me and ignore the plonk in the other glass. I raise it and smile. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ he echoes, crashing his gin glass against mine clumsily. ‘To the lovely couple.’ He slugs another mouthful of gin before banging the glass back down on the table.
I shake my head and tears gather in my eyes. I’ve no idea where they’ve come from. It must be the stress of everything. ‘He’s stood me up.’
‘Oh, he hasn’t?’
‘I was supposed to meet him in the bar. But I’ve been sitting here alone for hours and there’s no sign of him.’
‘He’s a damn fool.’ He takes another mouthful of gin.
‘No,’ I sigh, letting the tears fall. ‘The fool is me. I guess Luke Hogan just isn’t the man for me. If that was even his real name.’
Andrew sits straighter, suddenly the colour of barley water. He slips off the bow tie that I know has been bothering him all night and pops the top button on his shirt effortlessly, and I wonder if he’s really as drunk as I thought. His neck is as thick as his accent. It’s almost impossible to believe this farmer from West Wicklow has made enough money out of pigs and cows to become one of Ireland’s wealthiest businessmen.
‘Luke Hogan?’ he says, looking shocked.
‘You know him?’
‘I do.’ Andrew’s voice has deepened. ‘He slipped out of the party early last night – told me he was going home to his pregnant wife. And I believed him. It would seem he made a fool of me too.’
‘His wife?’ I say. ‘He’s married. Oh my God.’
Andrew exhales, and the stench of alcohol-soaked breath claws its way through the air. ‘How could you have known?’
Of course I knew. I know everything about Luke Hogan. I know how he likes his tea. How he’s grumpy in the mornings and how he stays up too late most nights. I know he hates coriander and loves being the centre of attention. I also know that he likes his wife to be perfect, a trophy to hang on his arm, and he can’t wait to be a father.
‘You’re not in the wholefood business, are you?’ Andrew says softly as he reaches across the table, and it takes me a second to realise he wants to take my hands in his. I let him. ‘You’re not here for the conference?’
‘Hiking,’ I say. ‘Fresh air and scenery. But it’s a lonely sport. That’s why I was so glad when I met Luke. He even said he’d come walking with me sometime. God, I’m such a fool.’
Andrew gazes at me with pity and I decide to elaborate. I have his attention. I might as well dig Luke a deeper hole.
‘I was exhausted after trekking fifteen mi
les yesterday afternoon. I bumped into Luke in the lobby. Literally. I was mortified, of course. He was done up all nice in a fancy tuxedo and there I was, red-faced and sweating.’
Andrew lets go of my hands, thankfully, and eases himself back further into the armchair to sip his gin casually. He’s relaxed. I can tell he’s a man who enjoys a good story. I continue.
‘I offered to buy Luke a drink by way of an apology. He suggested the bar but I felt horribly underdressed.’
‘So, it was your idea?’ Andrew says, tilting his head to one side, curious.
‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘I guess it was. Or at least a drink was.’
The story is effortless to tell. Because it is true. Mostly true. Except the hill-walking part. I can think of countless ways to exercise and none of it involves nature or blisters. Luke didn’t remember me, unsurprisingly. More surprisingly he refused my offer of a drink, which pissed me off after all the effort I had put in. I was wearing khaki shorts with oversized pockets for God’s sake and my tanned, toned legs go on for miles. I’ve spent the last few years getting into peak physical shape. I told him I was lonely after walking for hours. How much more of a hint did he need? Either Luke Hogan doesn’t like getting laid. Or he really does love his wife. Either way I was an inconvenience, and when he told me he was married and on his way home, I had no more cards to play.
I followed him, of course, making sure he wasn’t just blowing me off. In an unexpected turn of events I reached his house before he did, discovering later that he stopped off to buy champagne for that bitch. I wasn’t planning to go inside – not at first, but when I watched her through the window flaunting her round belly I couldn’t help myself. But I wish I’d known they had a dog. I got such a fright when I realised, I broke something in the bathroom. Thankfully, by the time the stupid furball noticed me, I was leaving anyway. But that didn’t stop the little shit barking and nipping at my ankles. The puppy will be the first thing to go.
‘And, what happened then?’ Andrew asks, his words slurred and his eyes heavy as his voice slices into my thoughts.
The gin is making him sleepy. We need to wrap this up. I couldn’t seduce Luke Hogan, so I will have to make do with the next best thing: convincing Andrew Buckley that Luke seduced me. One way or another, Luke and Darcy are not getting their hands on Andrew’s money.
‘I had a bottle of whiskey in my room,’ I continue. ‘I like a night cap. It helps me sleep. Anyway, I thought we could have a drink. One. Just one.’
‘Whiskey.’ Andrew shakes his head. ‘It can make good men do bad deeds.’
Good men? Luke Hogan isn’t a good man.
‘And good women,’ I add, keeping calm. ‘And here I am sitting in an expensive hotel in a dress I bought last minute, that truthfully I can’t afford, waiting for a man who will never turn up.’
‘It’s a beautiful dress,’ Andrew says, as if I need to hear it. ‘But you don’t have to do this, you know.’ He eyes drop to the slit in my dress and he shakes his head, disgusted. ‘If that’s all a man sees, then he’s the wrong man.’
‘You sound like my father.’ I smile, adjusting my dress so my leg is no longer on show.
‘I’m sure he’s very proud,’ Andrew says, draining his glass.
I don’t reply. Partially because there is nothing to say about my father. Mostly because I notice the way Andrew is looking at me now. Father-like. Nostalgic. Perfect! He’s thinking about her, I can tell. He’s thinking about how my strawberry-blonde hair, parted a little off centre, is so like hers. He’s thinking about her green eyes and button nose – her features similar, but more petite than mine. My eyes are a little darker too, more hazel than green, but they’re close enough. I didn’t have to bother with contacts. I don’t have freckles that sprinkle across my nose like cinnamon. But I’m wearing so much make-up now that freckles would be impossible to see anyway. He’s thinking about how much he misses her, I can see it in his eyes.
And then I see the tears, the subtle ones that sweep across his gaze, and he says, ‘You remind me of someone.’
I don’t ask who. Instead I say, ‘Is there somewhere private we could talk some more? You can tell me all about them.’
He stands up. ‘Gillian was the apple of my eye.’ Unsteady on his feet, he grabs his drink, the ice cubes rattling as he waddles forward, mumbling. ‘My office. We can talk more there. You’d have liked her, you know. Everyone liked her.’
Not everyone.
I leave the wine on the table and I follow him.
Chapter Eight
GILLIAN
Sunday 16 June 2019
I wake with a horrendous headache and my mouth is gaping and dry as I suck in filtered air. Above me is a slightly off-white ceiling and it’s spinning, as if I’m on the waltzer at the funfair. Only there is nothing fun about this feeling. The bed beneath me is soft and comfortable. I just wish it was my bed. I rub my eyes and sit up, yielding to a crippling headache. This is the second time in my life that I’ve woken up with my mind on fire like this – my conscience is burning and guilt swirls in the pit of my stomach. I’ve done it again. Something terrible. Really, really terrible.
I slide out of bed and my legs are shaking as I throw back the curtains and stare outside. It’s blisteringly bright – the sun shines high in a cloudless sky. Green fields stretch for miles. It couldn’t be more different to the view when I open the curtains at home and the neon light of the Chinese takeaway across the street glares back at me. Steadying, I realise I’m staring out at a golf course. A glance left tells me I’m overlooking the twelfth hole. A glance right reveals a pair of shocked golfers open-mouthed and shaking their heads. I gasp, realising I’m standing in my underwear, and grab the curtains. Shutting them roughly, I plunge myself into near darkness.
I feel around for clothes. Finally, squinting, I make out a dress draped over the back of a chair. It’s not the jeans and T-shirt I was hoping for but it will have to do. It’s crumpled and smells like smoke. Cigars, I think as I shake it out. It’s fitted and formal, and much too fancy for day wear, but I quickly slip it on because all I want right now is to get the hell out of this room.
I can’t find shoes and I don’t want to spend time searching. I also know there’s no point looking for my bag, wallet or phone. They’ll be waiting at home for me. The same way they were the last time I did this.
I hurry out of the door, slamming it behind me.
‘Excuse me? Excuse me.’ A woman with an American accent appears from a room directly opposite me and flags my attention. She’s frazzled with a toddler on her hip and an older child holds her hand. ‘Is the air con working in your room? Ours isn’t and it’s awfully stuffy.’
I shrug. My hands are clammy and my cheeks are flushed but air conditioning is the last thing on my mind.
‘We weren’t expecting it to be so hot, even in summer,’ she adds.
A door opens at the end of the corridor and a man and a woman walk towards us. I drop my head.
‘Morning,’ they chirp.
‘Good morning,’ the American lady says.
‘Morning,’ I whisper, keeping my head low.
My heart is pounding. I need to get out of here before someone recognises me.
‘It’s our first time in Dublin,’ the lady says as the couple pass by. ‘Everyone told us Ireland is cold and wet.’
I force a smile.
‘I want to go to the pool,’ the older child demands, swinging his mother’s arm back and forth impatiently. ‘I want to go noooowww.’
‘In a minute.’ She grits her teeth.
‘I’m going to reception,’ I say, beads of perspiration beginning to gather at the nape of my neck. ‘I can mention your air con, if you like.’ I lean to one side so I can read the room number on the door behind her. ‘Room one-one-two, right?’
‘Reception,’ she says, nodding. ‘Good idea. I’ll come with you.’
‘No. No,’ I snap. The child steps back until his body is half hidden behind his
mother’s. ‘I mean, no need for us both to go. You head on for a swim. Hopefully maintenance will have it fixed by the time you get back.’
‘Okay. Thank you,’ she says, jutting her hip out further to keep the toddler from slipping. ‘That would be great. You Irish are all just so helpful. We’re having such a lovely holiday.’
‘It’s no problem,’ I say, sweating really starting to become a problem as I feel anxious beads trickle down my spine.
‘That lady had no shoes.’ I hear the child laugh as they walk away. ‘And her dress was all dirty.’
‘Shh,’ his mother scolds. ‘Don’t be rude.’
I hurry.
Reception is spacious but chilly. The air con is most certainly turned on down here and I’m overly conscious of my bare feet and fancy red dress with a contrasting burgundy stain spattered across the front. I fold my arms, trying to hide the speckles, as I wait in line to speak to someone on the desk. The couple in front of me are having trouble with their room key and someone else wants to leave luggage for collection later. It’s all so normal, mundane even. It’s driving me crazy.
Finally, it’s my turn and after rehearsing what I was going to say over in my head, when I open my mouth to speak, it’s difficult to force words out.
‘Hello,’ says a pretty woman in a teal-and-grey uniform that matches the wallpaper behind her a little too well. ‘How can I help you this afternoon?’
Afternoon? It couldn’t possibly be. Bloody hell!
‘I . . . I . . .’ I swallow. I don’t know what to say. The receptionist is smiling but her eyes are judging me in my crumpled dress and shoeless feet. I can’t say I blame her. On another day I’d judge myself.
‘Erm. The air con in room one-one-two is broken,’ I say, remembering.
‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ she says, tapping something into her computer. ‘I’ll have someone look at it right away for you. You don’t need to wait in your room. Maintenance can let themselves in, if that’s okay?’
I don’t correct her and explain it’s not my room.
Keep Your Friends Close Page 5