Right Girl

by Ellie O'Neill

  The next morning I banged into Cat in the kitchen grabbing a slice of toast.

  ‘You look nice. Where are you going?’

  I had a skirt on, dark tights and steel-capped kitten heel boots. I had a full face of make-up and wore an explosion of perfume. Not something I would normally be wearing on a Tuesday.

  ‘Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin,’ I said, happy to speak the truth.

  She eyed me suspiciously. ‘Alone?’

  ‘With a botanist,’ I replied into my chest.

  ‘Oh, Freya.’ She sighed. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? You’re meeting Patrick?’

  I met her eyes and blinked in affirmation.

  ‘What are you doing? Seriously, this is a mistake, you are making a huge mistake.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . I am going. I’m going.’ I bit my bottom lip nervously.

  Cat shook her head at me, looking so disappointed. ‘Are you the guy who shags the stripper on his stag night? Is that what you’re doing?’

  I stared at my shoes. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Looks like that to me.’

  ‘I think I could have real feelings for Patrick,’ I said quietly.

  ‘No, you don’t, what you have is fear – fear of a wedding, of committing your life to someone. What about Mason, Freya?’ She sounded really angry.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Freya, you haven’t thought this through, you’re going to hurt two people. What if Patrick has feelings for you? How is he going to feel when he discovers you’ve been lying to him all this time? Because it will come out, he is going to find out the truth. If he is any kind of a decent guy, he’s not going to want anything to do with you.’

  Oh God, she was right.

  ‘And Mason. You’re going to destroy him, for what? A case of wedding jitters?’

  ‘Cat, it’s not just wedding jitters, and it’s not just about Mason, but if it was about Mason . . . I mean . . . Mason and I . . .’ I looked for the words, I wanted to say them out loud. ‘We make each other miserable.’

  I couldn’t believe what I had just said. Cat and I stared across the kitchen at each other in silence.

  ‘What?’ she finally asked, disbelievingly.

  ‘We’re miserable together. We don’t work.’ I felt a weight lifting off my shoulders. That’s it, I thought. It’s true. It’s true. We don’t work.

  ‘But you’re ninety-three per cent, that’s an impossibility.’

  I shrugged. I couldn’t explain it either.

  Twenty minutes later I was standing, very nervous and excited and disgusted at myself all at the same time, outside the front gate of the Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin on Dublin’s north side. The last time I was here was on a school tour. Aside from the fact that I had a fiancé and should not be doing this, which I was just going to brush aside for now, breezy-breezy like, this was the first time I had ever done a day date as a first date. No moody lighting and no alcohol, and because it was a week day, I had to be at work in about two hours.

  There he was.

  He was walking speedily down the street. I could see the straps of a backpack on his shoulders. He wore that infectious smile that literally turned me weak at the knees. I felt my mouth open and close. He bent in to kiss my cheek. He smelled like the sea, fresh and clean.

  ‘Great, great, you’re here.’ He took a step back and laughed.

  I gulped in response and then put my foot in it. ‘Well, it is an official date.’ And we both blushed awkwardly and looked at the sky, the footpath, the bins left out for collection, anywhere than at each other’s crimson faces.

  ‘Do you want to go and get breakfast or something? The sign says it doesn’t open until half nine,’ I asked.

  ‘Ha ha.’ He suddenly looked like a mad and over-excited inventor as he dug deep into his jacket pocket. ‘I have keys.’

  ‘What?’ I marvelled at the keys jingling in his hand.

  ‘This is why we had to meet so early.’ He started to follow the dark green iron railings and found a small, almost invisible side gate. ‘My professor is the head botanist here, he’s not strictly supposed to give out these keys, but I told him I had some very important research that needed to be conducted.’ He cleared his throat and looked at me, smiling a little crookedly.

  I decided to flirt, bravely. ‘That’s me, is it? Important research?’

  He didn’t really take the cue to start flirting because something much more exciting happened: the gate creaked and we were in. He held it open in the manner of a true gentleman and I slid past him, feeling petite and ladylike.

  ‘This way?’ I asked, unsure.

  ‘Follow the yellow brick road.’

  The path was a little broken up and cracked, with stones and ferns intermingling, but there was definitely a track to follow. Large holly bushes grew on either side with small creamy flowers and the occasional surprise of a red berry peeping through. There was a rich, musky scent in the air, which was heavy with dew and moisture. I took a deep breath and smiled as I exhaled. I followed the pathway, spotting a clearing ahead, which joined a larger, more cultivated-looking area. I looked back to Patrick and felt like I might burst with happiness. This was beyond perfect. Flowers, outdoors, creeping around like two renegades; my heart was pumping wildly. The old impetuous Freya was jumping up and down. And I couldn’t help myself, I did something so off the cuff and so unlike the measured person I was these days – I stopped walking and blocked his path.

  ‘I just want to say that this is officially the best date I have ever been on, and even if we don’t walk any further than this path, even if it ends now, it’s just perfect. That you would know how much a place like this would mean to me, and to do it as an adventure . . . Patrick, it’s just perfect,’ I babbled, forcing myself to look directly at him, my heart leaping out of my chest.

  He released a belly laugh. ‘Ah, come on, Freya, we’re not even in the door, there’s lots more to see. Don’t be going all sentimental on me now.’ He marched past me, but as he did he reached across and took my hand, and I didn’t think I would ever let go.

  What followed was a guided tour of the gardens, well, really only a quarter of the gardens because they’re massive. We took pathways that snaked around cultivated, ordered collections of a wide range of flowers bursting alive to the morning sun. The grass looked like velvet, like a little elf had been up all night trimming it with nail scissors and had gone on to plump up the daisies and spritz some dew on the deep red roses. Patrick pointed out flowers that I might like, and told me all about them, where they originally came from, how they grew in Ireland, the climate they liked, the food, how they interacted with their floral neighbours, what the bees thought of them.

  ‘Every flower,’ he said, ‘has a story, they’re like people, each one individual, each one with a history.’

  I was awestruck. I learned that the gardens were opened in 1795 and while they were unquestionably beautiful, they were working gardens: for scientific research, to understand agriculture better, to protect species under threat and to trial plants that were not native to Ireland.

  I crouched down to a red flower. ‘Is that a poppy?’

  ‘A rough poppy, yeah. Well, it’s a hybrid of one.’

  ‘I’ve only ever seen pictures, I thought these were totally extinct now.’

  He nodded. ‘In the wild they’ve been wiped out, their natural environment has been destroyed. There’s bluebells here too, in the glasshouse.’

  ‘I remember bluebells, fields of bluebells when I was a child, but then they just disappeared.’

  ‘They were one of the species of plants that couldn’t survive climate change. So many others adapted but the bluebell wasn’t hardy enough for the cold winters and hot summers.’

  ‘It’s so sad.’

  ‘That’s why places like this are so important. Who knows what the future holds? Hopefully we can fix some of the mess and share this planet with nature instead of destroying it.’

  We had been
walking for an hour, hand in hand. He occasionally slipped away when he bent down to get closer to something, to show me a plant further along, but then he readjusted and took my hand again. We were alone, walking hand in hand in a magical garden, and it was wonderful.

  There was a river meandering through the leafy green banks of the gardens. Patrick manoeuvred our tour towards it, slightly off the main pathway and into a more wooded area. There was an iron bench perched on the bank underneath a willow tree that lazily dipped its leaves into the clear stream. Patrick led me towards the bench and sat down, swinging his backpack in front.

  ‘Tea break,’ he announced. ‘Or coffee. I brought tea and coffee – I didn’t know what you’d prefer.’ He unzipped his bag and produced a flask, and then a little box with coffee granules and another of tea bags. And then a larger lunch box appeared and there were yoghurts and fruit, and some type of granola, and he dug again and pulled out a squashed brown paper bag. He looked into it and then up at me, a little disappointed.

  ‘The croissants are a bit mushed, but the chocolate inside still looks good.’

  ‘Give it here so.’

  I popped myself down beside him and happily helped to lay out our breakfast picnic. Needless to say, I dived straight for the squishy chocolate croissant.

  ‘So, that estate, the Rockford Estate, is that your family?’ I blurted. It had been on my mind that maybe we were not really on the same level.

  He nodded. ‘It’s been in my family for generations. It’s really beautiful.’

  ‘You grew up there?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘In a castle?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Are you a prince?’

  He took a bite of croissant and smiled cheekily. ‘Well, obviously I’m a prince.’

  I punched him in the shoulder. ‘Shut up, you know what I mean.’

  ‘If you follow back the family line, there is an inherited title, I’m a lord or something. But it’s ridiculous, it hasn’t been used in generations, it doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s a complete waste. You should totally use it. You don’t even have it on your email as a signature. Do you have a crown?’

  He laughed. ‘Freya. Who has a crown?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Lord Patrick, maybe you?’

  ‘Okay, okay. The truth is there are very few riches left on the estate that are worth anything. My parents and one of my sisters still live there, it’s a bit of a tumbledown mansion now. We’re trying to get grants to restore the place and open it to the public, and I hope to work on the gardens. My family don’t have any money – they’re cash poor but with this incredible estate.’

  ‘I’m cash poor too. We’ve so much in common.’

  ‘I realise it can be off-putting.’ He looked a little serious now.

  ‘It’s just different, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, everyone is different. This is just my point of difference.’

  ‘It’s okay, I can live with it.’

  And we smiled like happy eejits at each other. Conversation with Patrick was so easy, he was so comfortable in his own skin that he made me feel relaxed. His demeanour invited confidences.

  But the clock was ticking and I had a full day’s work ahead of me. I needed to be in the shop in the next hour. I was beginning to understand why day dates weren’t very popular, but I wouldn’t swap a second of this one.

  We walked back to the gate holding hands, moving noticeably slower. We found our holly bushes and started to creep along the broken pathway. We were coming to the end of our date, and there was a spark of inevitability zinging between us, I could feel it. We were going to kiss. I was yearning to touch him, to kiss him, to know him. To feel his skin against mine and to hold his face in my hands. I had jittery shivers racing up and down my spine and shockwaves firing in my groin.

  So when Patrick turned to me and held my gaze, I didn’t feel at all surprised or shocked. I was ready. I was waiting. As he moved towards me, I saw his eyes drift close and I followed. He placed his hand gently in my hair and I felt the warmth of his breath then the touch of his lips on mine, and I was gone.

  Lost in his kiss.

  30

  Instead of going straight to work after my glorious date, I found myself driving to the book café in Sandymount, a small village by the sea on the outskirts of Dublin city. I loved this place but I always felt like I was cheating on Granddad a little bit, so I made sure I ordered plenty of food.

  I needed to clear my head and I wanted to be around books.

  I sat at a table hidden down the back near the fiction section. A bouncy dark-haired waitress wearing bright red lipstick approached me.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  I ran my finger down the menu, knowing I wasn’t remotely hungry.

  ‘Eggs and bacon on toast, please, and a chocolate brownie and a latte.’

  ‘No problem.’ She swung her ponytail and input my order. I surveyed the wall of books in front of me.

  ‘Do you read? Can you recommend some books?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely, I’m a big reader. What are you looking for?’ she said enthusiastically.

  ‘Something about an adulterer. A really horrible person who cheats on a nice man?’

  She took a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully. ‘You know, the French do adultery really well, have you read Madame Bovary by Flaubert?’ She scanned the titles on the shelves. ‘She’s a really self-absorbed, selfish protagonist, who finds marriage to the local doctor boring, even though he’s a nice man, so she takes a lover, and it all goes to rack and ruin.’

  ‘A hateful protagonist and a bitter end, that sounds right up my alley.’ I’d read Madame Bovary a few times and had always found her hateful, but now I wondered if I would see her in a different light, maybe even as a sympathetic character, given I was in effect morphing into her. What had the waitress said? ‘Self-absorbed, selfish . . . and it all goes to rack and ruin’? It sounded like me alright.

  The waitress released a little gleeful sound as she plucked a book from the shelf. ‘Here you go, it’s a great book, she’s horrible.’

  I nodded and took it from her, feeling deflated.

  ‘The Great Gatsby, a weak woman who wouldn’t commit to her lover and stayed in a loveless marriage with her husband. Spineless, you know?’ She got up on her tippy toes and scoured the shelves again.

  ‘Spineless and weak, that sounds spot on.’ If I was filling out my CV now I could pop those two characteristics down under personal traits.

  She handed me another book. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘That’s just perfect, thank you.’ I stared down at the titles. ‘Are they really terrible women, I wonder, or did circumstances beyond their control lead them to have an affair?’

  The waitress peered at me and shrugged.

  ‘I mean sometimes you might be married, or let’s say engaged, you might be engaged to someone and then someone else, someone magnificent, walks into your life and you can’t help yourself and it’s literally out of your control, the universe puts you in a spin. Maybe that’s what happened to Daisy and Madame Bovary, maybe they never had a choice, a real choice.’

  The waitress was edging away from the table. She was no longer even within earshot, so I was speaking to myself.

  ‘Or maybe they did have a choice, for the first time in a long time.’ I spoke to myself. ‘I’ll have brunch with these hateful women. I might learn a thing or two.’

  I twiddled my engagement ring, which had found its way back onto my finger, and watched the waitress walk to another table and take their order. I had to do something, I had to stop the lies. I was falling for Patrick when I had no right to. I was starting something with him that was based on a lie. Cat was right – I was going to hurt two people.

  That same afternoon I had a delivery to make near Colin’s house. It was a good opportunity to talk to Mardi and see how things were going. I texted and told her I was going
to spin in with some chocolate ice creams for the boys.

  I hated what I saw when she opened the door. Her face was pale, her blonde hair dark and lank, her eyes clear of mascara, her skin blotchy, her lips cracked. She was wearing pink pyjamas even though it was two o’clock. She looked right at me but didn’t see me. It was like she didn’t recognise me. I put my hand out to her shoulder and squeezed it slightly.

  ‘Mardi, it’s me, it’s Freya.’

  She blinked and there was a flicker of recognition. ‘Of course, come in,’ she said in a whisper, and pulled the door back but didn’t move out of the doorway.

  I stepped inside but she didn’t follow me. I returned and hooked her arm in mine, guiding her back indoors. I walked her into the sitting room. It was spotless. There wasn’t a cushion that hadn’t been fluffed up, a drape that wasn’t dust free. There was a scent of baked goods in the air that automatically caused my stomach to rumble. The boys were there, lying on their tummies, feet kicked up, chins resting on hands, happily watching cartoons on the telly. I sat Mardi in a chair, and her eyes switched immediately to the bright colours dancing across the TV screen. She watched, mesmerised.

  ‘Maybe I’ll make some coffee. Would you like a cup?’

  She pulled her phone to her mouth and spoke slowly, in an uncomfortable drawl, like she was too tired to even form the words. ‘Would I like a cup of coffee?’ She flashed the screen in front of me. The answer was yes, with two sugars.

  I nodded but didn’t go. Instead I sat on the arm of her chair. I kept my voice low. ‘Are you okay?’

  She picked up her phone and spoke into it. ‘Am I okay?’