Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘I’m glad you like it. The views are spectacular, don’t you think?’

  I didn’t have time to check. I will, later.

  I pull up at yet another anonymous building in another anonymous industrial estate and let him out of the car.

  ‘Text me when you need me,’ I say.

  ‘Sure. Actually . . .’ He turns back to me and shrugs. ‘Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I’m having dinner with Bob and his colleagues at the hotel this evening. I can get him to drive me.’

  ‘But I’m sure you’ll want to change and freshen up.’

  ‘I’m not a woman.’ He grins. ‘I’ll put on a clean shirt. That’ll be me done. Honestly, Roxy, take some time out. Have a glass of wine or something. Get a massage in the spa. Relax. You’ve done a lot of driving today.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Certain,’ says Ivo.

  ‘OK, then.’

  ‘Oh, Roxy . . .’ He calls me back.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Charge it to the room,’ he says, and then turns away.

  The valet takes the car from me and I forget about it and him as I walk back to my beautiful room. That last throwaway comment of Ivo’s about charging things to the room has made me wonder all over again if he has an ulterior motive in having me stay here. And yet why would he? All the same, I’m totally paranoid and have no idea what I should be doing.

  So I call Debs.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I tell her. ‘The hotel, the room, everything. The total five-star experience.’

  ‘Wow, Roxy.’ Her voice is envious. ‘You’ve so fallen on your feet with this client.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What does he expect from me in return?’ I ask.

  ‘Decent driving?’ she suggests. And then, when I don’t say anything, she cuts to the chase and asks if I think he’s after a bit on the side.

  ‘I don’t think he’s the sort,’ I say. ‘Of course I didn’t think Dave was the sort before he copped off with Julie Halpin.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘I can’t help feeling as though all this luxury needs a pay-off. Not,’ I add, ‘that I’d necessarily be his kind of pay-off. It’s just that I’m being treated like I’ve never been treated before, but he’s the one who’s supposed to be the client. Though why would he want me as a pay-off, Debs? He has a gorgeous girlfriend.’

  ‘Gorgeous girlfriends are no guarantee that men won’t go offside,’ says Debs. ‘Is there some kind of big corporate thing happening there later? Where they ship in a load of women in short skirts for the men? Did he ask you to bring anything special to wear?’

  ‘No. And I’m wearing my trousers and jacket,’ I tell her. ‘I’d hardly fit in in some kind of chicken-ranch scenario.’

  She laughs, and so do I, which makes me feel a lot better.

  ‘Does he make you uncomfortable?’ Her tone is suddenly serious. ‘Because if so, Roxy, you could do a flit. Leave a message, say you had some urgent family business to see to. I’m sure he’ll manage to get back to wherever he’s going.’

  ‘He’s never made me feel uncomfortable,’ I say. ‘In fact, he’s one of the easiest people I’ve ever driven. He’s fun when he wants to be. And he’s quite charming, too.’

  ‘And yet you’re afraid he wants you to put out for him,’ says Debs. ‘Which isn’t all that charming, is it? But if you wanted to . . . well, I wouldn’t blame you, either. A bit of revenge sex with your hot client would put Dave in his place.’

  ‘I don’t want revenge sex,’ I protest as I try to banish the image of Ivo Lehane naked in the room with me. ‘It’s not about that.’

  ‘What’s it about then?’ asks Debs.

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘I’m not going to encourage you to cheat on Dave,’ Debs says. ‘But what happens on the road stays on the road.’

  ‘I don’t want anything to happen on the road,’ I tell her. ‘And I certainly don’t want to cheat on Dave.’

  She stays silent.

  ‘I don’t!’ I repeat as forcefully as I can. ‘Honest to God, Debs, it’s bad enough that Dave thinks there’s something going on without you encouraging me.’

  ‘Does he? Really?’

  I explain about the perfume.

  ‘Jesus, Roxy, no wonder you think the luxury hotel is part of a great seduction.’

  ‘But the perfume was totally accidental.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Debs.

  ‘I swear to God.’

  ‘It’s odd if nothing else,’ she says. ‘I understand why you’re a bit worried. The whole set-up is peculiar.’

  Everyone thinks there’s something odd about my relationship with Ivo Lehane. Even me. We can’t all be wrong.

  And yet, I think, as I eventually hang up from Debs, Ivo has always behaved impeccably. My current uneasiness is more about what’s going on in my own head than the man himself.

  I think of Dave, sullen and angry. I think of Ivo, charming and kind.

  I like the way Ivo looks out for me. I like the way he asks my opinion. I like the way he treats me as an equal.

  I like him.

  But I don’t want to sleep with him.

  Do I?

  Chapter 22

  Somewhat to my surprise, I fall asleep, and it’s dark when I wake up again. It takes me a couple of minutes to realise where I am. I grab my phone, which shows the time as 5.30 p.m. There are no missed calls and no messages. I get up and close the heavy gold-coloured curtains. Then I call Mum.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks. ‘Everything OK?’

  I tell her that everything’s fine and that the client is safely off at his meetings, and she asks about the hotel. She’s never heard of it so she doesn’t know I’m staying in the lap of luxury while she’s looking after my children. I can hear them squabbling in the background and ask her to put them on to me.

  ‘Tom is being really mean,’ Mica tells me. ‘He won’t let me help with stirring the pot.’

  ‘Are you cooking?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum’s friend is making dinner,’ Mica says. ‘We’re having dabbled beef.’

  That sounds disgusting.

  ‘Daube of beef,’ Mum amends when I finally get talking to her again. ‘It’s stew really, but very posh.’

  ‘Posh food by a friend? Is it Diarmuid who’s doing the cooking?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘He asked me to go out to dinner with him, and when I told him I couldn’t, he said he’d bring dinner to me.’

  I think I gasp out loud. Mum’s voice was warm and affectionate when she spoke. And why wouldn’t it be? He’s cooking for her. Which is . . . lovely. Especially as he seems to be dealing with my children too.

  ‘Ah, they’re getting on great,’ says Mum when I apologise for messing up her night. ‘Diarmuid doesn’t see his own grandchildren that often, so he’s delighted to have some time with Mica and Tom.’

  ‘And you,’ I add.

  She laughs. ‘It’s still just friendship, Roxy.’

  Maybe, I think, after we’ve finished talking. But it feels like more than that to me.

  Mum’s talk of food has made me feel hungry. Ivo didn’t say anything about the eating options to go along with the glass of wine I haven’t yet had, but I’m hoping I can get some bar food and coffee. And maybe the wine too. But despite the swimming costume in my bag, I’ll give the spa a miss. Now that I’m here, I really don’t feel right about lying by the pool, and there’s no way I’d charge a massage to the room.

  I take my denim skirt and floral T-shirt from my overnight case, which also contains fresh underwear and another white blouse for tomorrow. I lay the change of clothes on the bed, then hop under the shower to freshen up. It’s a blissful shower – maybe even as good as the one in Beechgrove Park. The towels are excellent and so’s the freebie body lotion, which is smooth and creamy. I get dressed, shake my hair out of its ponytail so that it falls around my face, slide my feet into the high heels I shove
d into the case at the last minute, and finally spritz myself with Annabel’s perfume. It’s a heavier, muskier scent than my usual one, perfectly in keeping with my surroundings.

  It’s after six so I try Dave’s mobile because he should be on the way home by now. It goes to his voicemail. Dave never listens to his voicemail; instead I send him a text to say I love him and miss him. Sending the message seems to centre me somehow, and I’m feeling a bit more like myself again as I go downstairs.

  The receptionist directs me to the bar, which does indeed serve food; although after a glance at the menu, I see that it’s mainly upmarket sandwiches. I select the chicken and also ask for a glass of white wine.

  There are only two other people in the bar, both men and both alone. One is reading a paper and has a pint of Guinness in front of him. The other is engrossed in his iPad and seems to be drinking water. The bar itself is more like an elegant drawing room than a place where people get stuck into alcohol. It’s furnished with armchairs, small tables and expensive-looking rugs. The ceilings are ornate and there are gilt-framed paintings and mirrors on the walls.

  A waitress brings me my wine, followed by the sandwich, which is, of course, a cut above your average chicken sandwich. It’s more of a mini meal, to be honest, beautifully presented and accompanied by a colourful salad. I’m sure Gina Hayes would approve. Although I am salivating at the sight of it, I take a photograph of both the sandwich and my wine, crop it, filter it and then post it to my Instagram page with the caption ‘Compensations in a Driver’s Life’. Leona Lynch likes it nearly at once and comments that every job must have its compensations. She adds the hashtag: #bestdriverintheworld , which is sweet of her.

  It takes me no time at all to demolish the lovely sandwich, but I linger over the glass of wine and, when I finally finish it, order coffee. Then I decide to take a wander around the hotel on the off chance that sometime in my future I might be able to come and stay here myself. I suddenly hear Dave’s voice in my ear telling me that if we sell Dad’s car we could have a break here, and I feel bad that I’m denying my family the opportunity to have a nice time just because I want to be a driver.

  He still hasn’t replied to my earlier text. I send another one saying I had a chicken sandwich for my tea (although I don’t include the photograph to show how fantastic a sandwich it actually was). There’s still no reply. A sudden feeling of fear grips me. The last time I left him alone, he brought Julie Halpin into my bed. Could he do it again? He promised he wouldn’t, but he’s so angry at me that maybe he’d think of it as warranted. I told Debs I wouldn’t have revenge sex. But what if Dave doesn’t feel the same? What if he feels that my insistence on doing this job justifies him having some fun with another woman in our bed again? I laugh mirthlessly at the thought of both of us sleeping with other people out of anger. Surely this isn’t what our lives have become.

  I put the phone back into my bag and return to the room.

  Alone.

  I watch TV for a while, but I’m too wound up to sit still. Besides, lovely though the room is, it’s suddenly claustrophobic. I pick up my bag, slip on my jacket and go out, leaving the hotel and walking around the stately old building. My jacket isn’t heavy enough to properly protect me from the chill of the night, and my heels keep sinking into the soft ground, but I don’t care. After being cocooned inside, the biting cold of real life is welcome.

  I don’t know anything about the history of the hotel, but I suppose that, like so many of the big houses I’ve driven people to, it was originally owned by a single family. I try once again to imagine what it would be like to be properly rich, to never have to worry about money, but I can’t. Having enough to pay the bills has always been the backdrop to my life, and it always will be. And maybe that’s why I want to work so much. Because I want to know that no matter what happens, I can make a living. That I can be independent.

  I never imagined that being independent was something I needed to think about when I married Dave. But it should have been. Because even if you’re part of a great team, you still need to have a space for yourself.

  Deep in my thoughts, I don’t even realise that I’ve walked right around the building. I’m properly cold now, and the wind has whipped my hair into a frizz, so I’m happy to go inside again. I decide to have another coffee in the bar. I don’t want to go up to my room yet. I’ve had enough of my own company.

  As soon as I walk into the bar, though, I realise I’ve made a mistake. Ivo Lehane is sitting there on his own. I don’t have time to walk out before he looks up and sees me.

  ‘Roxy,’ he says. ‘Come and join me.’

  I sit down beside him, feeling slightly frivolous in my skirt and high heels and thinking it might have been better not to have changed after all.

  ‘Drink?’ he asks. There’s a half-full glass in front of him and I think it’s gin.

  ‘Coffee would be nice.’

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t like something else?’ he asks.

  I’d kill for another glass of wine. But we’re leaving at seven thirty tomorrow morning, so I shake my head.

  ‘Coffee it is, so,’ he says, and orders it. Then he asks if I’ve been exploring.

  I nod and run my fingers through my windswept hair before glancing down at my short skirt and shoes. ‘I’m a bit of a mess, sorry.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘You look . . .’

  I wait.

  ‘. . . less intimidating,’ he finishes.

  ‘Intimidating!’ I stare at him. ‘I couldn’t possibly look intimidating.’

  ‘Oh, but you do.’ He grins at me. ‘You’re so cool and professional that I’m always afraid of saying the wrong thing.’

  I don’t believe him.

  ‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘You get behind the wheel and it’s like you’re the captain of a plane or something. You’re in total control of everything around you.’

  ‘I wish.’ I can’t help laughing.

  ‘Anyway, you can chill out for a while now,’ he says.

  ‘How did your meetings go?’ I switch the subject away from me. ‘Did you have a nice dinner?’

  ‘The dinner was great and so were the meetings,’ he replies. ‘George and Kristina are good people and I think they’ll handle our new projects well. I should’ve visited them before, really. Same with the others.’

  ‘Are they all part of your company?’

  ‘We own or part-own them,’ he tells me. ‘They don’t work for me directly.’

  ‘Do you have many people working for you?’ I know I’m asking too many questions, but I’m interested.

  ‘It’s a big company,’ says Ivo. ‘But you know how it is, everything’s in sections and departments and the number of people who actually report directly to anyone is quite small. Are you interested in management?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m a driver,’ I remind him. ‘So . . . no.’

  He laughs. It’s a genuine laugh and I relax a little more.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve been caught up in it all today. Truthfully I’d love to be involved in the research and development stuff myself, but I’m not qualified. I wish I were.’

  ‘How did you get into it?’ I ask.

  I listen as he talks about his career path and I think of how different it is from mine.

  ‘Have you ever wanted to get married and have a family?’ I don’t know where that came from. We were having a proper business conversation and suddenly I’ve thrown a personal question at him. When I desperately don’t want to get personal with him. What the hell is wrong with me?

  ‘Never had time,’ he replies. ‘When I was younger, it wasn’t something I was interested in. I was spectacularly bad at relationships, treated women terribly.’

  ‘I don’t believe that!’

  ‘It’s true.’ He makes a face. ‘I told you before, I’m not a people person. I guess I inherited that from my dad. I didn’t want to make any woman as miserable as my mum, so I didn’t really try to connect with t
hem. I was the guy who says he’ll call but doesn’t.’

  ‘Ah, that guy.’ I make a face at him.

  ‘And then I got busy so it hasn’t been an issue. All the same,’ he adds, ‘it’s something that in recent years I’ve come to regret a little.’

  ‘Plenty of time,’ I say.

  ‘Yes and no.’ His expression is serious. ‘I’m forty, which seems young but isn’t when you’re talking about maybe starting a family and stuff. My dad was in his twenties. So was my mum. Though maybe it was because they were both so young that it went the way it did. Still, it’s hard to make compromises when you get older, and I’m guessing marriage is all about compromise.’

  I tell him about Mum and her dating site and the fact that all the men are looking for younger women, and he nods slowly before laughing.

  ‘We’re so vain, aren’t we?’ he says. ‘Men, I mean. No matter how old and unfit we are, we still think that women see us as hunks.’

  I laugh too. ‘It’s true. I’m not going to make you feel better by saying any different!’ And then, not caring, I ask about Annabel.

  ‘Oh, I’m punching way above my weight with her,’ says Ivo. ‘She’s a properly qualified research chemist. Brains to burn. Beauty too.’

  That’s why she’s so high-maintenance, I suppose.

  ‘It’s been a struggle, though, these last weeks, what with coming home to my father,’ he says. ‘We don’t get much time during the week, so the weekends are really important.’

  ‘You could have brought her,’ I say.

  ‘No!’ He looks horrified. ‘She wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  I wait a few moments before asking him if he’s thinking of visiting his dad again, and he sighs.

  ‘I know I’ve made it up with Lizzy,’ he says. ‘But seeing him is really hard. I want to forgive him, I honestly do. Yet even after all the therapy and stuff, I simply can’t.’ He shrugs. ‘But as you said, I guess it doesn’t matter whether I forgive him or not as long as I show up. I was thinking about a visit this weekend until the US trip came together. I’ll call Lizzy when I’m back and sort something out.’

  ‘You should call her while you’re here,’ I say. ‘And tell her you’ll see her when you’re back.’