by Karen Swan
‘Oh, but . . .’ He’d only just come out of the room. Surely his sanity if nothing else needed a change of scene. On the other hand, Bertie was here . . . ‘Here, let me take the cup through for you,’ she said instead, darting over and taking the cup from his hands before he could protest.
‘Really—’
‘I insist. Hot liquids and a limp aren’t a happy match.’
She set it down on the bedside table, hurriedly straightening the duvet and replumping the pillows for him as he hobbled through. At the very least, it would feel better to lie on a made bed. She ran through to the bathroom and refreshed the carafe of water by his bedside too. ‘Shall I open the curtains for you?’ she asked as he came through, the tortoise to her hare.
He nodded, sinking onto the bed wearily as she drew them open as wide as they would go. The window, although nowhere near as dramatic as the full-height one next door, faced down to the sea so at least he would have a view from bed.
She looked at him. He seemed to have become tense, his body hunched and closed. Was it the pain? He was on less than a third of his prescribed dose. ‘Have you taken your medication?’
‘No. I don’t need it.’
His body language suggested otherwise. She sighed, knowing better than to push him on it. ‘Well, are you quite sure you want to be back in here again? You’ve only just resurfaced.’
‘Yes.’ His voice sounded tight. Was the pain ratcheting up?
‘It’s no problem to sit in the living room. Bertie and I are just going over—’
‘Race details?’
Ottie flinched at the edge in his voice. What did that mean?
Ben looked away. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘Well, just let me know if you need anything,’ she said quietly, retreating from the room, his gaze just catching hers as the door closed. It reminded him of the first night she’d met him, that undefinable look in his eyes, as though he had a secret.
Bertie was on her immediately. ‘What is he doing here?’ he whispered, eyes wide and looking furious at the unexpected development.
But Ottie pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head firmly, fire in her eyes. ‘Not here.’
They braced against the wind, bodies hunched and coats held close as they walked along the wet sand. The tide was going out, striating the beach with narrow grooves and leaving behind the now-usual detritus of the Atlantic Ocean. Ottie had her reusable plastic bag with her and kept bending every few yards to stuff in old water bottles, drinks cans, twists of fishing net, plastic lids . . .
‘You can’t do this,’ Bertie said furiously. ‘He’s a complete stranger. You can’t have him sleeping in your house.’
‘No! You don’t get to have it both ways – you don’t get to withdraw all contact and still think you have a right to say who I can or cannot have to stay in my house.’ She gave a scornful laugh. ‘Besides, the guy can’t move, Bertie! What do you think he’s going to do? Strangle me in my sleep? Trust me, he’d have to ask for my help getting out of bed to do it first.’
Bertie stopped walking. ‘And where are you sleeping if he’s got the bed?’
Her mouth fell open in disbelief. He couldn’t seriously think . . . ‘The sofa! Where d’you think?’
‘Okay, I was just asking,’ he said, holding his hands up in surrender as he saw her shock continue to bloom across her face.
But he wasn’t just asking. There had been suspicion in his voice. ‘Notwithstanding the fact he is bodily broken at the moment, do you really think I’d just fall into bed with the guy?’ she cried.
He looked away, anguished. ‘No, I . . . Jeesht, no, of course not. It’s just – you don’t see how beautiful y’are. Any guy would be a fool not to act on any opportunity he got with you.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘We’re not all like you, Bertie,’ she snapped. ‘We don’t all sleep with people just because we can.’ The words were out before she could stop them and she stopped walking abruptly as she saw the spasm of pain cross his face. ‘. . . I didn’t mean that.’
‘Sure you did,’ he said quietly. ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater, right?’
She stared at him, wanting to wind back time, unsay what she’d said. ‘No. You’re not like that. We fell in love, it’s different.’ But her words were stiff – it was an explanation, not a pardon – and as he reached to take her in his arms, she pulled away, stalking over the sand away from him. He didn’t get to play the hurt puppy.
He hurried to keep up with her, his body still stiff from the weekend. They walked in silence for a few strides, Ottie bending down to collect the numerous bottles, straws . . .
‘Ottie, look, I keep getting it wrong, I know that. I shoulda come over before now.’
‘Yeah, you shoulda.’
‘And I know I was “off”the other night – but I was stressed out of my mind. I thought we were going to find a body.’
‘Yeah. We all did.’
‘But it’s my company – my responsibility. My fault.’
‘No. You made it quite clear it was all mine. I was the one who stopped you from putting out the signs, remember? I was the one who ducked out for a loo break. It was all on me.’
‘Darling, that’s not true,’ he protested, looking aghast.
‘That’s what you said. As if I needed to be told it! Don’t you think I felt bad enough?’
‘Otts, I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. It was never my intention. I was just strung out. Please, forgive me?’ His eyes searched hers but she looked away. She couldn’t forgive him just like that. His accusations that night had hurt her not because they were true but because he was supposed to be her protector, not prosecutor. ‘Of course I understand why you’re doing this for Gilmore. You’re too good-hearted—’
She wheeled around to face him again. ‘I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart, Bertie. That man nearly died because of me! I couldn’t just leave him. He’s a continent away from home. No one’s rung or come to see him. This is guilt, plain and simple – something you and I are both very well acquainted with.’
The unnamed mention of his wife made them both step back. Shula was always there between them, like a third shadow. For five years now, Ottie had lived with the duplicity and the lies that came with their affair because she loved this man. Being with him was the only time she could feel happy, herself, free: she went to bed at night wanting to dream of him and awoke hoping to see him. She scarcely dared leave the cottage in case she missed a visit from him and her every waking thought was dominated by wondering when she would see him next, when they could finally tell the world the truth and they could be free to live as they both wanted to. They had sneaked around trying not to hurt other people – Shula, her father, her mother – but how much longer could she go on waiting? Her heart ached for a normal life. She felt like a shell every time she had to see him in public – with Shula – and greet him as a family friend; it depleted her, having to pretend to everyone that she was happily single when all she wanted was to shout from the rooftops that she was radiantly in love with a man who felt the same. He was her drug and she couldn’t pretend to be a victim when a man had almost died because of her blinkered, fevered need to get her next fix of him.
She turned to face him, the wind catching her hair and streaming it across her face yet again, but he caught and held it back with his fingers. ‘We can’t go on like this Bertie. People are getting hurt.’
He stared back at her, panic gathering in his eyes. ‘Oh Christ, don’t ask this of me Ottie. Don’t ask me to give you up. If I was a stronger man, a better man—’
‘No. I’m not saying that. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.’ She stepped in closer so that their bodies were touching, their coats flapping against each other and she closed her eyes as he clasped her head and kissed her finally. He tasted of coffee and marmalade. ‘But I want us to be together – properly. I need it. I can’t carry on like this. I’m tired of all the lies.’
/> ‘I know, so am I. And we will be, I promise.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘When’s soon?’ she pressed. ‘You always said we could never tell because of Dad; you said it would destroy him. But . . .’ She couldn’t say the words. She didn’t need to.
‘I know. I know,’ he said quickly, rubbing her arms, the guilt curled up in his face like a fat cat.
‘You have to tell Shula. It’s the kindest thing to do. Your marriage may be dead, but she’s an attractive woman; let her be free to find someone new, start over again. You owe her that. At least let her find the happiness we’ve found.’
He looked away, staring into the pounding waves. ‘You have the conviction of youth, Ottie. Everything’s easier when you have nothing to lose.’
‘I have everything to lose,’ she cried. ‘You are my world. I base my entire life around you, waiting here for you, waiting for one night or twenty minutes with you – I never know what I’m going to get, or when.’
He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I know, it’s not fair on either of you. I’m in an impossible situation. I don’t want to hurt her but I can’t lose you.’
‘You have to choose, you know that. We’ve been in this holding pattern for too long now. I want more. I want to be with you. To live with you. To wake up beside you every morning.’
He clasped her face and kissed her again, urgently. ‘And I want that too,’ he murmured, and she could feel his passion for her.
‘So then do it. Tell Shula and make the break.’ Her breath was hot upon his neck.
‘I will, I promise.’
‘Soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘By Christmas.’
His mouth parted in surprise. ‘I—’
‘I want us to wake up together on Christmas morning, Bertie. I can be your present to unwrap and you can be mine . . .’ He moaned as she pressed herself closer to him and moved her hand inside his coat. ‘Promise me. Tell me we’ll be together by Christmas . . . Tell me . . .’
His eyes closed and he nodded as her hands moved to where he wanted them to be, her kisses covering his neck. ‘I promise. We’ll be together by Christmas.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Same again, Joe,’ Pip said, sliding her glass back across the counter to him.
‘You’re thirsty tonight,’ the publican said mildly, glancing up at her as he pulled another pint.
‘Aye, well, I’ve been working hard, haven’t I?’ It was Friday, but her first night back in the pub all week.
‘Playing hard too, from what I heard . . . Glad you’re okay.’
Glad you’re okay. Code for ‘glad you didn’t die.’ Pip rolled her eyes at the classic local understatement. Fuss wasn’t tolerated well here. ‘Ta.’
He pushed the pint back towards her but refused to take her cash, again. The first one had been on the house. ‘Phil Meenahan,’ he said, nodding towards the carpenter playing pool.
‘Thanks, Phil!’ she called over, holding up the pint.
‘Aye-aye!’ he called back with a cheery wave.
‘Anyone would think you were liked around here,’ Joe quipped, his eyes darting to the door as it opened and a couple of workmen came in. ‘What’ll it be, fellas?’ he asked them, wandering up the bar.
Pip turned her head and looked over her shoulder, taking in the cosy scene in her local. It was especially busy in here tonight. It wasn’t a fancy gastro place, nor did it have any of the twee decorations of some country pubs, with hops dangling from the rafters or rusted old threshers and harnesses pinned to the walls, although Joe and his mother had made a start on Christmas decorations – loops of tinsel held in place with Blu Tack and bunches of holly in pint glasses on the tables. The place was unpretentious: bright white walls that advertised the cleanliness of the place; rickety dark-wood tables that almost never stood flat on the flagged stone floor; an inglenook chimney with a couple of bench seats built in at the sides and a winder still visible up the stack from where they used to smoke the ham. There were never any specials and to her knowledge, an avocado or ‘keenwah’ had never been on the menu. But there were punters at almost every table, most of them locals; the small size of the village meant pretty much everyone could walk – stagger – home.
She’d been invited by a couple of people to join them as she came in, but whilst she hadn’t wanted to spend another night alone at home, she didn’t particularly want to speak much to anyone either. She felt unlike herself, dislocated and rattled, as though on edge somehow. A little bit of low-key chat with the barman was all she really felt up to.
She shivered, wondering why she was cold. Someone had said snow was predicted but even so, the fire was roaring – Joe always made sure the embers were glowing before he even opened the doors in the morning; forget a dart board, don’t bother with Sky access, he always said there was nothing that made people kick off their shoes and settle in for the night like a crackling fire.
The door opened again as more punters came in. It was approaching peak happy hour, six thirty on a Friday night. She stared down at the grain of the wood as they came to the bar and ordered. She was particularly well acquainted with this particular knot; it was her usual spot – out of the draught of the door, not so close to the fire as to make her beer warm.
‘Pint, thanks.’
She looked up at the voice. Or rather, the accent. It wasn’t local.
A guy in hobnailed boots and rip-stop workman trousers was standing there, drumming his fingers lightly on the bar like they were rhythm sticks. He had a thick dark beard that made his teeth look very white, shaggy dark hair and brown eyes, a tattoo peeking out of his cuffs.
Pip felt an interested smile grow on her lips.
‘Hey,’ he nodded, noticing her sidelong attention.
‘Hey.’
He smiled, and hesitated. ‘Would you . . .?’
‘Got one, thanks,’ she said, tapping the pint glass between her clasped hands.
‘Ah.’ He looked back at the upturned spirit bottles on the bar but seemed to be holding his breath. There was a pregnant pause before he turned back again with another smile. ‘. . . I’m Jack, by the way.’
‘Pip.’
‘Pip? Cute name.’
Pip narrowed her eyes. No one had ever called her cute before. She decided she rather liked it and smiled. ‘I heard your accent. Wicklow, was it?’
‘That’s right. We’re just down for a few days. Got a big job on at the castle at the moment.’
‘Oh?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘D’you know it?’
Her smile grew as her amusement factor went up. She could see Joe was listening in on their conversation as he pulled Jack’s pint. ‘Sure, everyone knows the castle round here. I hear they’re doing a lot of work up there at the moment.’
Jack whistled through his white teeth. ‘That’s putting it lightly. They’d be better off pulling it down and rebuilding, if you ask me.’
‘It’s pretty old, though,’ she frowned. ‘Quite a historic building. It’d be a shame to lose it.’
He shrugged. ‘Old is cold. No one lives like that any more, do they?’
Joe passed him his beer and threw an amused glance her way as Jack handed him the fiver.
‘Cheers,’ Jack said to her as he lifted his pint to his lips.
‘Cheers,’ Pip said, watching his eyes close as he took the first thirsty sip. Maybe this was what she was missing, she mused. It had been ages since she’d last fallen into bed with someone. Somehow, the guys she met seemed increasingly less worth the bother.
‘So, Jack, what is it you’re doing up at the castle?’
‘I’m a tube monkey.’
‘A what now?’
‘Scaffolder,’ he grinned.
‘Ah.’ His body was angling towards her now, solidifying the exchange from a chat into a conversation.
‘Yeah, they’re patching the roof.’
‘I heard it was in pretty poor conditi
on,’ she said, wrinkling her nose conspiratorially.
‘I don’t know how it’s still up,’ he shrugged. ‘Willpower?’
‘Stubbornness, I should imagine. The owners are known for it.’
‘Yeah? You’ve met them?’
‘Loads of times,’ she nodded, able to see Joe in the corner of her eye, chuckling away quietly to himself.
‘Don’t tell me – they’re stuck-up, right?’
‘Oh my God, the worst,’ she breathed heavily, like he’d stumbled on to a grave secret.
‘The gaffer sees it all the time –’
It took Pip a moment to understand what he meant. Boss?
‘– These old families trading on past glories, but they’ve got no money, no nous, no idea how to live in the real world.’
‘I can imagine.’
Joe, reaching for some glasses, threw his head back in silent laughter, but Jack had his back to him. Punters were coming in thick and fast now, driven in by the plummeting temperatures, but she scarcely noticed. The pub was filling up around them.
Jack took another sip of his drink, his gaze coming to rest on her interestedly. ‘And what do you do?’
‘Me? Oh –’ She blew out through her cheeks. ‘I run the local riding stables.’
‘Ah-huh,’ he nodded, leaning back slightly and taking in her filthy navy jodhpurs, boots, industrial fleece. ‘A woman who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty, I see.’
‘I love getting my hands dirty,’ she said flirtatiously.
‘And so, what – do people keep their horses with you, or . . . how does it work?’
‘No, the horses are all mine. I run trekking expeditions – full-week holidays down the coast, day trips, family excursions, Scouts and Guides, outward bound clubs, you name it . . .’
‘Sounds like you’re doing a lot of work with kids.’
‘They’re harder workers than their parents, I find.’
‘Well, perhaps I’ll get to see it before I go. I’ve always liked horses.’
‘Yeah? Do they like you?’
He laughed. ‘Usually.’ His eyes were shining; they both knew what was going on here.
‘So where are you staying?’ she asked mildly, tapping her conspicuously bare ring finger lightly against her glass.
