by Karen Swan
‘Get over yourself, Taigh,’ she muttered, beginning to stagger forwards. She just needed to get into the pub and beside that fire. Once she’d warmed up she’d be fine.
‘You need help.’
‘I don’t need any help from you, Taigh O’Mahoney,’ she said, batting him away with a dismissive hand. ‘You’re not a feckin’ hero. You don’t get to save me.’
‘I’ve already done it once.’
She whirled around to face him. ‘No. You didn’t save me, Willow did. She pulled me from the water – her and the handsome fella – so don’t act like you were the saviour that night.’ She narrowed her eyes, his image blurry in the brightness.
‘Jesus Christ, you like to hold a grudge, don’t you?’ he yelled as she staggered away from him.
A grudge? She pivoted straight back towards him again like a drunk. ‘What is it with you, huh? It’s like you want me to be indebted to you in some way. What’s that about?’
He stared at her, looking at a loss, and somewhere deep inside her befuddled mind, she realized she’d hit upon a truth. ‘Okay yeah, maybe you’re right – I do want to save you. I do want to do something that makes you indebted to me for once.’
‘Why?’ she scowled.
‘Because I’m forever on the back foot with you, aren’t I? Doesn’t matter what I do, you won’t let me forget what I did all that while back, kissing that damned girl the day I finished with you. Christ, I don’t even remember her name.’
‘Lizzie Galloway,’ she spat.
He looked surprised. ‘Oh yeah. Lizzie. But you won’t let me make it up to you.’
‘That’s right . . .’ she sneered, but she was feeling so dizzy again, the cold air swirling inside her chest.
‘Can’t you just let it go and let bygones be bygones? I was sixteen years old, for Chrissakes!’
‘I’m not interested,’ she said but her voice was almost a whisper, her stare fixed on the cone of light on the ground spilling from the Hare’s windows as she tried to place one foot in front of the other.
He was walking beside her, determined to have his say. ‘Let’s face it, it’s not like it was ever going to go anywhere anyway. The likes of you don’t end up with fellas like me, I knew that. I saw the writing on the wall, that was all.’
A small, sour smile played on her lips as she tried to reach the light. ‘I never took you for a snob, Taigh O’Mahoney.’ But as her knees buckled and she felt herself go down again, she heard his words, distinct in the dark.
‘I’m just a realist, Pip.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The blue lights whirled out of sight, the ambulance making careful progress on the snowy road. The gritters never came out here, the lanes too narrow and supposedly ‘not enough’ people in this little knot of land to justify the expense; it usually fell to the farmers to get their tractors out and do what they could.
‘She’ll be all right, won’t she?’ Willow asked in a scared voice as Shula tightened her arm around her.
‘Of course she will. Your mam’s with her and Taigh was sure it’s pneumonia. He says she’ll make a swift recovery just as soon as they get the antibiotics into her.’
‘Poor Taigh, he looked so upset. He kept saying it was his fault.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Shula hushed. ‘He wasn’t to know.’
‘But he did, that’s the thing. He kept running around after her, trying to check up on her after she was discharged from hospital. He told her – and me – she had to rest, that we had to take it seriously. But we didn’t, none of us did! She helped me move out, she helped Ottie clear up the campsite after the Ultra race, the day after she was let out of hospital. And then she was racing on the beach this morning! She’s not stopped for a minute, Shula, and we let her just carry on. All of us.’
Shula sighed, seeing the self-condemnation in her face. ‘Willow, you know your sister is a tour de force. Nothing and no one can stop her if she decides she doesn’t want to stop. But at some point, she is going to have to confront the fact that she isn’t superhuman. Underneath it all, she’s as vulnerable as the rest of us.’
Pip, vulnerable? There was an oxymoron if ever she’d heard one.
‘Hey.’
She looked up. Connor was standing just off to the side of them, clearly not wanting to intrude. Shula’s arm slid off her shoulder as she saw the way they looked at each other. ‘Make sure you come in for a drink and warm up.’
‘I will.’
She watched Shula walk into the pub. Bertie had gone ahead to order some drinks and Ottie – well, she didn’t know where Ottie was now. Talking to someone probably.
‘How is she?’ he asked, forcing her attention – her gaze – back onto him. This was getting to be a habit: them, Pip and a medical emergency.
‘We’re hoping she’ll be fine. Suspected pneumonia.’
‘A complication from the other weekend?’
She nodded.
‘But treatable?’
‘In most cases.’ She stared back at him. He was wearing jeans and a navy padded Prada jacket that looked like it should be worn in the streets of Milan, not a Christmas carol concert in some tiny village in the south-western corner of Ireland. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Haven’t your guests arrived?’
‘Yes, we’ve kicked off. I can’t stay long.’
She swallowed. It felt violently odd, the thought of all these people . . . strangers . . . staying in her home. ‘Did you get it all done in time?’
‘Just. There’s a few bits left to do but nothing they’d notice particularly. I hope.’
She realized he looked exhausted. She shrugged her eyebrows, desperately curious to see it on the one hand, desperate not to on the other.
‘I had thought I’d see you there this week actually. If nothing else, I thought you’d want to . . . just see what we’ve done.’
‘There’s been a lot to do at the Dower House, so . . .’ They both knew she’d been avoiding him but how could she tell him she felt mortified by the way she had left things between them at the pub? Reacting the way she did to what had just been an off-hand comment, a tease – her emotions had been all over the place, her response too revealing.
‘Right.’ There was a small pause as she looked away, refusing to connect. ‘Well anyway, I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible – the finance is ready.’
Her head jerked back. ‘What?’
‘We managed to move fast. Our investors agreed that we can’t lose Lorne twice. So the contracts are ready and being couriered over from Dublin tomorrow.’
She felt her stomach swoop like a hunting eagle. ‘Right.’
He frowned. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it? You said you wanted a quick deal.’
She stared into the distance, feeling her heart race. This was it? She’d got what she wanted? ‘Of course.’
‘So if you can come over tomorrow, we can sign it off and get this deal done.’
‘Fine. Right. Yes.’ An overdraft of 784 euros tonight. Four point three million euros in credit tomorrow.
‘And then that will be our business together concluded.’ Her eyes flashed up to his, catching the undercurrent to his words. He hadn’t given up on her? ‘Shall we sign at the party?’
‘If you like,’ she shrugged, desperately wishing she wasn’t wearing a hand-knitted bobble hat. Mrs Mac had made it for her years ago and it was still her favourite, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be caught wearing it by Handsome.
‘Were you planning on coming to the party anyway?’ he asked, jamming his hands deeper into his jeans pockets, trying to stay warm.
‘No.’
He frowned. ‘Why not? You should be there. It’s your castle.’
‘It’ll be yours tomorrow,’ she countered, quickly looking around to check whether anyone had overheard. It felt like treason just saying the words.
‘It just feels wrong to have an event like that and the Lornes not be a part of it.’
‘But we’re not par
t of it any more. We’re the past and everything’s already moved on.’
‘Fine then. I’d like you to be there.’ He stared at her with the uncomplicated longing that had made everything complicated from the start. ‘I want to see you, Willow. I know why you steered clear this week and you were right – it was better not to confuse business with pleasure. But the second that contract’s signed . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t we just see where we end up?’ He blinked, looking at her with eyes that made anything seem possible. Even happy endings. ‘Say you’ll stay.’
Ottie paced in the ladies’ toilet, listening for the distinct knock on the door that elicited a Pavlovian response in her these days – dilated pupils, shortness of breath, warm flush across her chest – the sign that he was here. Finally.
It came and she unlocked the door, stepping back quickly so that he could hurry in without being seen.
‘Did anyone see you?’ she whispered, as he squeezed in with her in the small space. They had met in here various times in the past – clandestine encounters gathered up on the hoof on the few occasions they had both inadvertently come here with other people; eyes following the other as they got up from their table across the pub, walking casually past with not so much as a glance . . . But that hadn’t been possible on their last visit when she’d come here with Ben and it appeared his resentment with her then still lingered.
‘I can’t stay.’ His eyes were cold and he looked older. Tired. The stress of the lawsuit was getting to him.
‘I’ve got good news,’ she smiled, undeterred. She was determined to get a happy ending out of today; her fight with Ben, Pip’s collapse – there had to be some edge of silver lining.
He looked at her, hesitation in his eyes.
‘He’s dropping the case.’
‘What?’ He looked astounded. ‘Gilmore’s—?’
She nodded excitedly, seeing how the light came back into his eyes, making him younger again, revitalized. Her smile grew. She did that for him. She did. Not Shula.
His hands reached for her. ‘But how did you get him to agree?’
‘I just asked him to drop it,’ she shrugged, tapping the buttons on his shirt like they were musical notes, fiddling with agitation.
‘That was it?’
‘Yeah.’
He stared at her. Could he tell she was tipsy? Upset? ‘You just asked him to drop a three-million-euro lawsuit and he agreed?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But he must have wanted something in return?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, Ottie. You tell me.’
She looked up at him quizzically, a confused smile on her lips. ‘Bertie, I just asked him and he said yes. That was all.’
He held her hands, stilling them, calming her down and staring at her as though trying to read her for what she wasn’t saying. But there was nothing to tell. ‘Did he say anything about us?’
She swallowed, feeling her mouth dry up and her heart twist, remembering how she’d played him. Used him. ‘Nope,’ she lied.
Bertie looked thoughtful. ‘Interesting. I thought he knew. I thought that was what he was alluding to the other night. It’s his Achilles heel so I thought it was exactly the place he’d try to strike out.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked. ‘What Achilles heel?’
‘Huh?’ He looked back at her distractedly. ‘Oh, his wife left him for his best friend.’
‘What?’ Her hands dropped down from his shirt.
‘Yeah. She was shagging him for years before he discovered them. Hasn’t he told you?’
‘No!’
Bertie looked pleased. ‘Huh. No, I guess he wouldn’t. No man wants to play the cuckold.’
She felt winded. ‘How do you know all this?’ she asked, appalled.
He shrugged. ‘I employed an investigator to look into his life. If he was so determined to ruin my life, I’d ruin his first.’ He looked back at her. ‘But he definitely said to you he was calling off the suit?’
She nodded, staring past him into the reflection of the mirror. Was the woman in that photo his ex-wife? And did he still love her? Why else would he be carrying her photo around with him?
Bertie pulled his phone out. ‘Listen, I’d better call my lawyer, call off the dogs. We’ll pick this up later, okay?’ He dipped down and pecked her on the lips, but she didn’t kiss him back, too distracted by the story she’d been told – remembering how Ben had drifted away from her when he’d talked about the ‘wake-up call’ in his life. Affairs destroy lives, Ottie. His wife had betrayed him with his best friend. That was why he ran for days and nights, through storms and up mountains. That was why he hated Bertie. And she . . . she had sensed his desire for her and used it against him, she had manipulated him to get what she wanted for her lover’s sake. She was no better than that woman in the photo – she had betrayed him too.
‘Check the coast’s clear for me, will you?’ he asked, stepping back from the door so that she could peer round. ‘Ottie?’
‘Huh? Oh . . .’ She slid back the bolt and looked out. The narrow corridor was empty, just a potted geranium on the small console table and some chunks of melting snow from someone’s boots on the red and black floral-patterned carpet. Noddy Holder was yelling from the speakers in the bar.
‘All clear,’ she murmured.
‘Great. I’ll call you,’ he said, slipping past and pushing open the door to the gents’ as he passed so that it would be swinging back slowly on its fire-door hinges if anyone should come round the corner.
But he didn’t say when he’d call.
And for once, she didn’t ask.
Ottie stared at the wall with owlish eyes – the large, white, blank wall, spotted with the dark shadows of snowflakes spinning outside the window. She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that the sofa wasn’t comfortable – she had slept on it every night for nearly two weeks now – nor was there any noise to distract her. If anything, it was too quiet, even the sea tonight just a gentle shush behind the glass.
Ben had been in the bedroom – still – when she had got back from the carols. They were doing a good job of managing to avoid one another: he had been in there when she’d left for Pip’s earlier too, unable to stay in the house a moment longer, with him on one side of the door, her on the other.
She’d heard his voice, low on the phone to someone or several people perhaps, as he’d spoken for a while, the bass of his voice coming under the door. But she knew he’d left the room whilst she’d been out – the food she had left covered for him in the fridge had been eaten, the plate washed and put away when she’d returned. Had he been waiting for the sight of her headlights to come down the lane before disappearing into the bedroom again, avoiding her as much as she’d avoided him? She didn’t blame him. But his flight was still two days from now and that felt unbearably long to suffer if it was going to be like this, the two of them like wooden figures in a Swiss cuckoo clock, one in while the other was out.
It was an odd sensation to feel displaced in her own home, unable to move freely about her own bedroom, or even go to the toilet. Talking of which, too many mulled wines . . . It only served to highlight how easy the past fortnight had been when they’d still been friends.
She turned over to take the pressure off her bladder – it was far too cold to go out to the shower block tonight – trying to get comfortable and bunching the duvet up around her neck to keep the warmth in. She stared through the window of the woodburner – a few flames still flickered weakly through the glass, embers glowing orange.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, willing it to come over her like a rain. But it was no good – her mind was racing, her heart too. She felt agitated and restless, her legs kicking, her fingers twiddling.
After another half hour of tossing and turning, she was no closer to sleeping and her bladder felt ready to burst. She threw the duvet off and got up, stuffing her socked feet into the muck boots by the door. Grabbing her j
acket from the hook and the master set of keys, she quietly slipped outside.
‘Jeesht!’ she gasped, any relief at moving counterbalanced by the shock of the cold. Clouds skidded past the moon and stars, throwing intermittent shadows on the ground as she ran carefully down the garden path, through the gate, over the lane and into the snowy field to the wash block. The biting temperatures immediately snapped at her bare legs, her oversized T-shirt nowhere near oversized enough to afford any meaningful thermal protection, and she gave a prayer of thanks that the campsite was closed.
Cold fingers meant she fumbled with the locks and she went to the loo in the dark, her eyes nervously watching all the shadows, before locking up again and running back to the cottage. She may have been outside for less than three minutes but her core temperature felt like it had plummeted by half and as she let herself back in, she gasped with relief as the warm temperatures folded around her like pillows.
‘Ahhh,’ she shivered, shrugging off her jacket and going to pull off her boot with the opposite foot. ‘—Oh!’
She almost shot into the air as she suddenly saw Ben standing by the bedroom door.
‘Sorry,’ he said, half retreating in shock himself. ‘I heard something. I thought someone was . . .’ His words faded out and she realized how ridiculous she must look in a sloppy T-shirt, old socks and one boot. Her hands automatically tugged down on the hem of her T-shirt. ‘But you’re fine, so . . .’
He made to leave.
‘Ben!’
He turned back. He was wearing his new pyjama bottoms, the ones they’d bought together – navy-and-grey striped cotton ones – no T-shirt. She tried not to stare at the outline of his abs. ‘. . . Yeah?’
Her mouth opened and she realized she had no idea what she wanted to say. ‘. . . I’m sorry.’ That, but not that too.
He stared at her, giving her that inscrutable look that she would never, ever understand. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he said quietly.
And he went back to bed.
She stared at the closed door, words rushing through her now, too late. She wanted to tell him she was sorry about what she’d done, she was sorry about his wife – but she couldn’t, not without revealing who had told her, and how he’d come by it. She wanted to tell him they should have an adventure together tomorrow – go somewhere in the car, have lunch out, a final day as friends before he crossed the ocean and went back to his own life. She wanted to tell him that she was going to miss him.
