It's Got To Be Perfect

by Claire Allan

  “The Westbury?” he repeated.

  “Where my friend is. Where I need to go. Do you know the way?” I glanced around me as if I should see a sign right there pointing the way.

  “I’ll walk you there if you want,” he offered. “After all, the beef curry can wait and I wouldn’t be comfortable leaving you and your battered ankle to make it there on your own.”

  “You don’t have to,” I stuttered.

  “I know,” he replied and I knew that he was going to walk me back to the hotel.

  He lifted my bags and I didn’t even for one second worry that he was going to run off with them.

  “It’s not far,” he said. “Is your ankle up to it?”

  Tentatively I stood up, grimacing slightly as I put pressure on my foot. Yes, it hurt but I would be able to walk on it – or at least waddle in a very undignified manner on it.

  “I’ll manage,” I said. “Although I might need to grab onto your arm from time to time.”

  “My arms are very grabbable,” he said with a smile as we headed slowly towards Grafton Street. “So, the Westbury? What has you there?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s a long story.”

  “At the speed we’re walking, I have the time,” he said with a wink.

  “Well, to cut the long story short – so that I don’t bore you senseless – we were staying with my sister but there was a bit of a falling out and so my friend has decamped to the Westbury instead.”

  “Very fancy,” he said.

  “Her fiancé is paying. That’s a long story too.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  “I sensed that but seriously you have better things to do than listen to me waffle on.”

  “Like what? Top Gear and the beef curry? Because much as I like Jeremy Clarkson, I like a bit of real-life scandal more.”

  “Well, if there is one thing I can do, it is scandal. Trust me, falling in front of a speeding car is just one in a long line of disastrous events in my life lately.”

  “You can talk to me,” he said. “I’m a therapist.”

  I felt my heart sink to my swollen ankle. If there was one thing I hated more than wannabe celebrity chefs, it was therapists. Even if they were dashingly handsome and had just saved my life.

  “I don’t need to be therapised,” I stuttered.

  “Is that even a word?” he laughed.

  “It is now – and believe me I don’t need it.”

  “It’s okay. Your secrets are safe with you. My therapising skills are strictly reserved for wayward teens and, while I realise this may well alienate me from you further, I’m guessing you are not a teen.”

  I smiled, relieved, and my heart left my ankle. Although it was a bit of bruise to my ego that random strangers on the streets of Dublin very obviously knew that I was well past my teenage years. I’d liked to have thought that in the right light I could have passed for a mature nineteen-year-old.

  “You guessed right. And thanks for not pushing. It might traumatise you entirely if you knew the full extent of my disastrous life.”

  “Okay, we’ll save it for another time. And beside, we are almost there – that’s the Westbury. You’ll like it. It’s a great hotel – very swish.”

  “I don’t usually do swish,” I said, fearing he might think I was a godawful snobby cow who regularly stayed in plush hotels in the centre of Dublin – especially when I had spent the last half hour telling him what a yokel I was.

  “I know the kind of woman you are,” he said. “You are effortlessly swish.”

  I laughed. In truth, I almost choked. Was he actually flirting? Had we moved from life-saving knight-in-shining-armour territory to flirting-at-a-fancy-hotel-ville?

  “That proves you really need to brush up on your people skills – because nothing I do – apart from putting weight on and make an eejit of myself – is ever effortless.”

  “My people skills are spot on,” he said, his face serious for a moment, and I felt a little flutter of something somewhere.

  I knew I absolutely had to make my move then and there before complicating my life any further.

  “So here we are then,” I said.

  “It would seem so.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mr Reilly, for your company and for not robbing me or trying to sleep with me.”

  “Not trying to sleep with you?” he laughed. “Do you always just say the first thing than comes into your head?”

  “Mostly. Yes. I did tell you – I am a disaster.”

  “Well, you are a most welcome disaster, Ms Delaney,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  I almost didn’t want to walk through the door. I could have stood there for ages – if only I didn’t have an urge to pee and an ankle that had decided that it actually really did hurt after all.

  “This might be a little pathetic, but how about I give you my business card?” he said. “You know, in case you ever turn into a fourteen-year-old with an image crisis?”

  I smiled and rifled in my bag. “And I’ll give you mine in case you ever want to shamelessly promote your therapising skills.”

  He smiled as he kissed me on the cheek and turned to walk away. It would have been terribly romantic if I wasn’t almost sure that I was never going to see him again.

  Fionn was lying prone over what was perhaps the biggest bed I had ever seen in my whole entire life. She was wearing the hotel robe and sipping from a glass of champagne.

  “Have a bath,” she said. “You absolutely should have a bath. That is perhaps the deepest, most scrummiest bath in the whole world. And have some champagne while you are at it. Alex is paying – again.”

  “Actually I’d just love a glass of water and some Nurofen,” I replied, sitting down on the bed and rubbing my ankle. It was only then I noticed the graze on my arm which was really quite bloody nasty-looking and bloody sore to boot.

  “What the bejesus happened to you?” Fionn asked, sitting up and grabbing at my arm for a closer look.

  “Nothing much,” I shrugged. “Just a rampant taxi and a near-death experience.”

  I gave her a quick rundown on my nearly being run down, mentioning my rescuer only as a nameless faceless stranger with quick reactions. Nor did I mention he had walked me back to the hotel.

  “Jesus, Annie. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Just fine. Worried about Darcy, and you, and a little sore and battered, but fine.” There was more than a hint of fecked-offness in my voice and Fionn visibly bristled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know she is your sister but she was a right pain in the arse today. In fact, she was a nasty bitch today if the truth be told. And she has been a right pain in the arse quite a lot lately.”

  “There’s more to this than meets the eye, though.”

  “Like what?” Fionn asked.

  “I don’t know. But you must realise this is not what she is usually like. You spent time with her and Gerry last night – did it seem strange?”

  Fionn shrugged: “Not really, that I can think of. We had something to eat. Gerry was a bit quiet but he said he was tired. Nothing which would justify her biting the fecking head off me over nothing anyway.”

  I felt torn. I knew that Darcy had been out of line, but I also knew something else was going on and, while I was angry with her, I was also worried stupid about her.

  “I overheard something last night,” I confided and then told her what I had heard when I got up to use the bathroom.

  Fionn was silent when I’d finished.

  “I’m not trying to excuse her behaviour,” I went on. “I’m not trying to say we should be lovely and nice to her when she is being a cow, but I think something is seriously wrong, Fionn. And I’m worried. Did Gerry say anything at all when you got the bags sent over?”

  “He said she had come home in a foul mood and had gone to bed. He’d wondered had there been some falling-out. In fairness to him, he asked me to reconsider, but I was so bloody angry that I said to send the ba
gs over anyway. And I don’t regret it for a minute. I couldn’t play nice with her after that, Annie, surely you understand?”

  I nodded sadly and sighed. “I don’t know what to think any more. I’m going to get that bath and that glass of water and a couple of Nurofen and then we can talk about what to do.”

  “I’ll run you the bath,” she said. “And I’ll order us some room service – although Alex’s patience might only run so far – and we’ll work it out.”

  “Okay,” I nodded again, starting to resemble one of those stupid dogs people sit on the parcel shelves of their cars.

  As she left the room I lifted my phone and tried to call Darcy. There was no answer. Part of me was damned angry that she wouldn’t take my call, regardless of whether she was lying like a wounded swan in her pit. I hung up and waited a while before calling again. Still no answer.

  This time I left a message. It was a simple “Darce, call me.” But when I called back a third time it was more angry: “Darcy, call me now. You’re acting like a madwoman. Shouting at my friend, running off on me. What the feck are you at? I nearly died by the way, but I doubt you’d give a damn about that just now.”

  I was pretty sure if I listened very, very carefully I could hear the sound of my big sister falling square off her pedestal and landing flat on her perfect hole. I hung up just as Fionn walked back in to ask me how much bubble bath I wanted and I sighed.

  “Let me just get a shower first. You know how I hate lying in a bath when I actually need to be cleaned.”

  She smiled and handed me a towelling robe. “Okay, pet. I’ll just watch some telly, you take your time.”

  24

  I lay back and allowed the bubbles to soothe my battered ankle. I had my phone beside me but it stayed ominously quiet. No messages from Darcy, no calls from Ant. No nothing. I tried not to get all paranoid but it was a losing battle.

  I tried to quell the uneasiness in my head with thoughts of Owen Reilly. I tried to remember him – to lock away that glint in his eyes in my memory, the softness of his hands and the strength of his arms. And then I tried to forget him. He was a nice man. He was a good-looking man. He had saved my life almost definitely but he was a man all the same and I was off men. Even, I thought, Ant who seemed only interested if I could be with him and in his bed right then and there. Sighing, I sank under the bubbles, holding my breath and listening to the rhythmic thumping of my own heartbeat echo in my ears.

  Fionn may well have been right – this was perhaps the most glorious bath in the whole entire world. I could die happily right there – which of course I was at risk of doing if I didn’t actually sit up and breathe soon. Gasping for air, letting it sink in my lungs as I brushed the bubbles from my face, I decided that I was not going to give any more headspace that evening to Ant – who hadn’t called – or Owen – who had saved my life. Instead I was going to be a strong, independent woman in a Beyoncé style and I would set about helping my sister to stop being such a cow to everyone and I would try as much as possible to discourage Fionn from completely bankrupting Alex even though this was perhaps the nicest bathroom I had ever set foot in.

  I climbed out of the bath and dried myself off before wrapping up in my robe and padding back into the bedroom where Fionn was now drinking a cup of tea – and where one was waiting for me.

  “Have you tried calling her?” she asked.

  “Yes. No answer.”

  “Hmmm,” she shrugged.

  “I left a message. A pretty nasty one. I might have told her to fuck off or similar.”

  “Good enough for her,” Fionn said.

  “I know,” I said, but I felt uneasy all the same.

  I hated fighting with Darcy. I needed not to be fighting with her, even if she had been a bitch. I knew what she would be up to now, locked in her room, maybe a glass of wine, hopefully feeling sorry about her actions. Memories of our childhood years once again flooded back. After the great bin-upending incident she had locked herself in the bathroom for three full hours. And not even Mum’s best efforts at coaxing her out with promises of extra Arctic Roll or a kick up the arse worked.

  And we only had one bathroom. And I really needed to pee. I ended up walking the five minutes to our grandparents’ where I battered on their door as if someone was dying and didn’t even say hello before battering up their staircase to their bathroom and relieving myself.

  I stayed in my grandparents’ house until I heard that Darcy had come back out of our bathroom but when I went home I wished I had stayed there even longer. She was in a mega-sulk and spoke little more than the occasional one-syllable word for the next three days – but no one gave out to her because we all knew that was just Darcy’s way and she would come round eventually and in her own good time. Of course we were also afraid that if we wound her up again she would lock herself in the bathroom for a whole other three hours and then, well, we’d have to run round to granny’s to pee or take to using a bucket in the back hall. Neither of which was ideal if the truth be told.

  So I told Fionn how I felt, how I knew my sister was acting awfully – how finally I was realising, maybe painfully, that she was far from perfect – but that I was worried about her.

  “The problem with you, Annie, is that you are too damn forgiving,” said Fionn. “I don’t think I could be. But if you want to go round and sort it out, of course I’ll support you. I don’t have to like it but I’ll support you.”

  I hugged her and cried on her shoulder while babbling incoherently about how she was the best friend ever and how I didn’t deserve her and how I absolutely would make Darcy say sorry if it killed me – which it just might.

  “Are you feeling very brave then?” I asked.

  “Hey, I just put more money than is acceptable on Alex’s credit card. Of course I’m feeling brave. Brave is my middle name. I’m the bravest person in the whole entire universe, don’tcha know?”

  “Right, well, let me get dressed and we’ll head off.”

  “But we can still come back here? Can’t we? I mean, it cost a lot of euros and the beds are ridiculously big and the bath is the very best bath in the whole wide universe. And besides, try as I will to play nice, I don’t think I could stay a night in Darcy’s, not after all those things she said.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We can come back.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I wondered what she was thanking me for. It was me who needed to thank her.

  I dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a cardigan – slipping sneakers on my feet to help protect my bruised ankle. Hair still wet, I tied it up in a ponytail and just brushed some loose powder across my face which had a distinctly pink glow from the afternoon in the sun.

  “Is your ankle up to the walk?” Fionn asked, slipping a light cardigan over her shoulders.

  “Not a fecking chance. But, please, could you deal with the taxi-drivers? You know I have a pathological fear that they’re going to take me the long way round just to fleece me.”

  “Seriously, Annie, how on earth did you ever get a job in PR with such a serious distrust of people?”

  “I got my job in PR – and am damn good at it – precisely because of my serious distrust in people. Sure isn’t our job all about lying in the most impressive way possible?”

  “Oooh,” she said with a cackle. “Don’t let Bawb hear you talking like that. He’ll have you excommunicated from the righteous clique of PR gurus. Never a free lip gloss or a meal for two in a fancy restaurant will pass your way again.”

  “I’ve had enough of meals for two in fancy restaurants and I’ve enough lip glosses in my possession to sink a small to medium-sized ship. That’s not even to mention the buzzing little freebies I got from Love, Sex and Magic – I will never see a fluffy little rabbit in the same way again.” I raised an eyebrow and the smile on my face just about said it all.

  Fionn was discussing the merits of the Rampant Rabbit when we arrived at Darcy’s. I had been trying to change the subject, aware of
the rising colour (and feck knows what else) of our taxi driver – but she was most insistent.

  “I don’t like the twirly bit,” she said. “It’s too much. Alex fears the neighbours will complain.”

  I nodded and smiled, my own colour rising which was making my face a strange shade of red, never mind the pink I had been before. I could see it all in the wing mirror. The glass or two of champagne had clearly lowered Fionn’s inhibitions just a tad. It made me wonder just what she would be like when she got in front of a fragile Darcy. Lord only knows what she would say to my sister and how it would be received. I knew I would have to change the subject before we reached the door but everything suddenly seemed laden with innuendo – from pressing the buzzer, to going upstairs, to getting it all out in the open. Fionn was practically purple with the exertion of laughing by the time a serious-faced Gerry let us into the flat. At least, I thought, Fionn was laughing and not spoiling for a fight.

  “Ladies,” he said, a strange looked on his face as if we had just caught him on the toilet or something worse.

  “Gerry,” I said, realising this was the first time I had actually seen him since my arrival in the Big Smoke, “how are you?” I moved to air-kiss him and he pulled away. I was startled – after all, I hadn’t done anything to him or Darcy – well, except move out of course. His body language was giving me a big old feck-off and he looked fed up – tired and fed up and not at all the ruggedly handsome Dub I had come to know and love.