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.