The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them?

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  Deira led him through the exhibition, growing in confidence as she shared her knowledge of the books and artwork.

  ‘Sounds like you had a fun time putting it all together,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I did,’ agreed Deira. ‘I’m very lucky to have had the opportunity to bring this amazing collection to the public.’

  At last Charlie told her that he thought they had enough material, and thanked her for being so helpful.

  He looked at Jonah, who gave him a thumbs-up and checked his recording. Jonah then said he had another job to get to so he’d see Charlie later.

  ‘Did you get everything you want?’ asked Deira.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  She stood awkwardly beside him, unsure of what, if anything, she should say. He ignored her as he looked at various pieces of the video.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She blurted it out and he paused the playback to look at her. ‘About that night. I’m so, so sorry. It’s been eating me up ever since.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘But I do,’ she said. ‘I realise that this opportunity for me to say something is as random as it may be unwelcome, but I’m not . . . I’m not really the sort of person I appeared to be. I—’

  ‘You made a mistake. It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not.’ She shook her head. ‘You were absolutely right. I objectified you. I made it all about your body and what you could give me and not about you as a person. And you’re a decent person, I know that. I tried to take advantage of you. I honestly can’t apologise enough.’

  His eyes met hers and held them for a moment.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ he said.

  ‘I feel I have to justify myself, even though there’s no justification.’

  ‘Not to me you don’t.’

  ‘Mr Mulholland. Charlie. Please. I know I’m only trying to make myself feel better, but . . . could we have coffee or something?’

  ‘Now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  ‘OK.’

  She was surprised at his unequivocal acceptance. ‘There’s a good place around the corner,’ she said. ‘Can you give me five minutes? I need to get my bag.’

  ‘OK,’ he said again.

  She took the lift to her office, grabbed her bag and was back in the lobby a couple of minutes later. Charlie had already packed away his gear and was waiting for her.

  ‘This way.’ She led him out of the building.

  The coffee shop was almost empty, with only a few people sitting in booths, laptops open in front of them. Deira went to get the coffees, telling Charlie to pick a seat.

  ‘How are your ribs, by the way?’ he asked when she put an Americano in front of him.

  ‘Good as new.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said. ‘You really did flatten yourself on the floor at that service station.’

  ‘I was in agony,’ she said, ‘but trying not to show it.’

  ‘I could see it all the same. I was worried about you driving to Bordeaux.’

  ‘I didn’t make it that far.’

  ‘No. But you got to Pamplona. And El Pozo de la Señora. I felt flattered when I saw you there. But obviously for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘You know from what I said that night that I was in a terrible place mentally. I was unhinged. Obsessed by what had happened with my boyfriend and his new girlfriend, obsessed with how devastated I felt, obsessed – as you know – by the fact that she was nearly half my age and going to have a baby, and what that represented for me. And I was obsessed in thinking that motherhood might have passed me by. It was physical, that obsession. It had taken me over.’

  ‘It didn’t seem that way in Pamplona.’

  ‘It came to the surface in waves,’ she said. ‘But it was there all the time. Bubbling away. Ready to erupt. Unfortunately, you were in the firing line when it did.’

  ‘I got the feeling that you put me in the firing line,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I did. And I regret it very much. Most of all, I regret that you had to share information with me that you wouldn’t have wanted to share. I embarrassed you as much as myself, and yes, all this is only to make me feel better, but I do want you to know that I was looking at every man I saw as a prospective father for my child. Every man who didn’t look like a psycho was a possibility. No matter who, no matter where. I was a . . . a maternal predator stalking the country.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘My ex and his partner have had their baby. I’ve agreed a settlement with him about our home. I’ve changed jobs. I’ve . . .’ she glanced up from the mug she’d been staring into as she spoke, ‘I’ve gone to a few counselling sessions, too.’

  ‘Have they helped?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Deira. ‘Everything has helped. There’s no point in me saying that I’m completely OK with all my choices. That I don’t feel that perhaps I’d still like to be a mother eventually, even though I know that every passing day makes it less likely. But it’s not the all-consuming passion it was before. And maybe I’ll stop thinking that way too. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve got my balance back.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Charlie. ‘And I’m glad you got some help, too.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand completely,’ she said, ‘but it’s really hard making the choices that women have to make. Especially when you suddenly realise that it’s not an abstract thing and you’re actually going to have to make them. It’s a shock when you feel that your own body has betrayed you. It’s still not an excuse for how I treated you, but it’s an explanation of sorts.’

  ‘I do understand the feeling of being betrayed by your own body,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Oh God. Of course. I—’

  He interrupted her. ‘Have you really been beating yourself up over our last encounter all this time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I went out with a girl once and I told her I loved her and would do anything for her and that she was the most wonderful person in the world. We slept together and the next morning I deleted my name from her contacts before tiptoeing out of her flat and never seeing her again. You did what you did because you wanted what you wanted, Deira. At least you were upfront about it.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  ‘All the same, nothing,’ he said. ‘Yes, I felt used by you. Yes, you wanted to use me. But in the whole realm of casting the first stone, we’re standing side by side. If anything, all that you’ve said shows me how women take on board a whole heap of guilt that they really don’t need to.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re OK about it?’

  ‘I was OK about it around twenty-four hours after you’d gone,’ said Charlie. ‘And I wished I hadn’t lost my temper with you, because I thought we got on well and I liked you. But I also knew that you wanted different things out of life than me, so there was no point trying to get in touch with you.’

  ‘So . . . we’re good?’ asked Deira.

  ‘Totally good.’

  ‘And you won’t make me look really stupid in the recording?’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ asked Charlie. ‘You’re taking me to coffee because you’re afraid I’ll make you look dumb?’

  ‘No. But I’m factoring that in.’

  ‘You’ll be great in it. And whatever I can do to make you look even greater, I will.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Deira said she’d better be getting back and Charlie agreed that he had a lot of work to do. To make her look wonderful, he added with a smile. She laughed.

  They walked out of the coffee shop together. The sun was high in the sky now, reflecting off the water of the dock and dazzling them so that they hurried into the shade.

  ‘I’ll send the finished product to Rhona as soon as possible,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Unless you’d rather see it yourself first.’

  She loo
ked at him.

  ‘In case you want me to make any changes.’

  ‘There may be some,’ she said.

  ‘You could come to my place,’ he suggested. ‘Tomorrow? Seven-ish? I could cook.’

  ‘You can cook?’

  ‘Amaya taught me. She insisted I needed to learn. She said that I shouldn’t starve when she was busy working. That everyone should know how to look after themselves and that didn’t just mean phoning Deliveroo.’

  ‘What sort of cooking?’

  ‘Paella, if you like that,’ he said. ‘My pork steak is also a very acceptable dish. I’m not bad at Dover sole either.’

  ‘I’ve never cooked any of those,’ she said. ‘When I was with Gavin, it was usually eating out, sending out or sandwiches.’

  ‘You’ll let me decide, so?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘I’ll message you my details.’

  He took out his phone.

  ‘It’s a no-strings thing,’ he said. ‘Just two people who know each other getting together.’

  ‘No strings,’ she agreed.

  He nodded and headed down the street away from her.

  She turned and walked back to her office.

  When she was sitting at her desk, she called Grace.

  ‘It seems we both may have found treasure thanks to Ken,’ Grace said after Deira had told her about her meeting with Charlie.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Deira. ‘I don’t know how this will work out. If there even is anything to work out. If I want it to.’

  ‘Sometimes the most unexpected things happen when you leave it all in the lap of the gods,’ said Grace. ‘Sometimes chance plays a far greater role in our lives than we think.’

  Grace was right, thought Deira, just like Tillie so often was. Chance had brought them together, and their journey had ended in ways that neither of them had expected, ways that seemed to be sending both of them in a new direction.

  The future isn’t set in stone, she told herself as she pulled her keyboard towards her and started to type. But neither is it something I can be sure of shaping the way I want. All I can do is hang on for the ride, and grab whatever opportunities I can along the way.

  With no regrets.

  Acknowledgements

  It takes more than just the author to turn an idea for a book into a finished novel that people might want to read, and the fact that Deira and Grace’s story has made it to the shelves (and the digital downloads) is because I have some wonderful people looking after me along the way.

  Enormous thanks to Marion Donaldson for her always thoughtful editorial suggestions. We’ve worked together for many years and technology has moved us away from reams of paper notes to colour-coded lists of queries on a screen. No matter which way they arrive, Marion’s suggestions are always made with warmth and humour, and I’m very grateful that she always sees what I’m trying to say, no matter how inelegantly I sometimes say it.

  Along with Marion, the book-loving people at Headline and Hachette are always a joy to work with. Special thanks to Ellie, Katie, Yeti and Alara in London, and to the entire Dublin team of Breda, Jim, Ruth, Elaine, Siobhan, Bernard, Joanna and the two Ciaras.

  My agent Isobel Dixon and her fantastic colleagues at Blake Friedmann look after me and my books wonderfully well. Thank you all once again for everything you do on my behalf. Extra thanks to Daisy, Sian, James and Resham for being unfailingly helpful even when I’m being particularly daft.

  My copyeditor, Jane Selley, has saved me from myself on more than one occasion, and I thank her for doing it so brilliantly once again in this novel. Thanks also to my proofreader, Kate Truman, for her work on the final manuscript.

  For bringing me on the literary tour of France and Spain, doing most of the driving, parking in impossible carparks, finding hidden hotels and beautiful locations – as well as drafting the first version of the map and highlighting the not-so-deliberate errors in the manuscript – I truly can’t thank Colm enough.

  As always lots of thanks to my family who champion my books any time, any place and everywhere.

  And finally – to you, the reader, whether this is the first of my books you’ve read or you’ve been with me for a lot of the journey, thank you for choosing The Women Who Ran Away. I hope you enjoyed reading about Deira and Grace as much as I enjoyed telling their story.

  We hope you enjoyed reading THE WOMEN WHO RAN AWAY.

  Don’t miss Sheila O’Flanagan’s No. 1 bestselling novel

  HER HUSBAND’S MISTAKE.

  Read the opening section of the novel now . . .

  Chapter 1

  The morning after my father’s funeral, I came home and found my husband in bed with the next-door neighbour.

  The first thing I wanted to do, when I saw Julie Halpin bouncing up and down on top of Dave like a naked cowboy in a rodeo, was to unsee what I’d just seen. I wanted to tiptoe out of the house and pretend I hadn’t been there at all. Which I know is a sadly weak response from someone who likes to believe that she’s strong and resilient and good in a crisis. But at that moment I didn’t feel one bit strong or resilient. Besides, my legs were far too wobbly to carry me out of the house without collapsing.

  The thing is, I’d already been through a crisis. I’d managed to hold it together through the months of Dad’s illness, when Mum was in denial and my brother too upset to be of any use. I’d coordinated hospital visits, talked to the nursing staff, made sure Dad was never alone for too long and even kept his business going. Strong and resilient stuff, no question. Both Mum and Aidan said so. Even Dad, weak as he was, had squeezed my arm and thanked me for everything I was doing.

  But I hadn’t given it a second thought because I’m the one who always knows what to do when the chips are down. I pride myself on my ability to cope.

  But I didn’t know how to cope with seeing Dave and Julie together. I still don’t.

  If I’d ever imagined this scenario – not that I had, because I’d always believed that Dave was a keeper – I’d have pictured my total control as I hauled Julie’s ample arse off my husband and dragged her down the stairs and out of my house. Possibly by her bouncy blonde curls. I’d have been in total control of throwing him out too. And though it would have been hard, I’d have got on with my life.

  But it hasn’t turned out that way. I’m frozen inside. I’ve no idea what to do. And no idea how to do it.

  I trusted Dave absolutely, you see. We were a partnership. A team. We’d been a team for a long time. Dave and Roxy. Mica and Tom. He was the manager. I was the coach. Yet given the opportunity, he’d called in a sub and relegated me to the bench. I didn’t want to believe it then and I wish I didn’t have to believe it now. But it happened. I have to accept it, no matter how much it hurts.

  The same feeling that engulfed me as I watched Julie’s Clairol-enhanced curls bobbing around her shoulders, and heard the creak of the mattress springs, is still with me now. It’s regret. Regret that I got up early and drove home wearing nothing more than a light coat over my silk pyjama top and matching shorts so that I could surprise Dave before he went to work. Regret that I didn’t stay where I was, alone in the single bed at my mum’s house, assuming that he was alone too, missing me as much as I was missing him. If I’d stayed at Mum’s, in blissful ignorance, I wouldn’t have had to reassess everything about my life. I’d have coped with my sorrow about Dad, coped with making sure Mum was OK, and got on with my life.

  But now I can’t.

  The only reason I went home at all that morning was because I craved some normality after the stress-filled weeks we’d all gone through. My head was still spinning from it. I don’t regret for a moment having spent so much time with Dad and Mum. Of course I don’t. I’d do anything for my family. But that morning, I just wanted to be in my own bed, with someone looking after me rather than the other way around.

  I know I’m being silly. Not knowing that Dave had cheated on me would have been far worse in the long run. At least, I’m prett
y sure it would. In the couple of months since it happened, I’ve read lots of articles about cheating partners. There’s a view from some that you’re better off in ignorance. But I can’t help thinking that sooner or later you’ll find out anyway. And then you’ll feel an even worse fool.

  If I hadn’t gone home at six o’clock that morning, I might not have found out straight away, but I would’ve had a little longer to avoid dealing with stuff I don’t want to deal with. I’d have carried on secure in the knowledge – now faulty – that my marriage was rock solid. I wouldn’t have to make decisions that I’m still quite unable to make. Decisions that aren’t only about me but are about Mica and Tom too. I’d still be the wife who’d been cheated on, but I wouldn’t be feeling as poleaxed as I do right now.

  And I wouldn’t be blaming myself for allowing my coping energy to be depleted by what was going on in my mother’s house and not keeping enough in reserve for what was happening in my own.

  Moving into Mum’s for a few days seemed like a good idea at the time. She needed someone with her, and the children were a welcome distraction. Dave agreed that it was the right thing to do too. But I didn’t realise that while I was shoring things up on one front, I’d left another completely exposed.

  As exposed as Julie’s round and – it pains me to say it – rather bootylicious arse.

  All these things went through my head at the sight of the two of them together, and I tried to stifle the choked gasp that had risen in my throat, but I couldn’t. Which meant that when Dave’s stricken eyes met mine over Julie’s mop of shining curls, there was no escape for either of us. Things had changed forever. We could never be the people we were before. And we would both have to deal with the fallout.

  Everyone has their own opinion on how I should deal with it. My mum. My best friends Debs, Alison and Michelle. Even the girls in my Slim to Win WhatsApp group. (I haven’t been to a meeting since it happened, but they’ve sent supportive messages anyway.) Word gets round on the Beechgrove estate, especially as Becca Brophy from across the road, and the biggest gossip known to man, saw Julie running from our house with her knickers in her hand. I’m sure she was messaging everyone before Julie had even reached her own door. Since then, I’ve had more advice from other people than I could possibly need. Yet my views are the only ones that matter. If only I knew what they really were. If only I knew how to deal with what I’m feeling.