by Melissa Hill
“Eric, it’s OK, I understand. I’d hate for you to have to go through this all on your own. Does Colm know anything?”
“Nah – not the kind of thing you discuss with him, really,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “And as I said, he knows Liz so . . .”
Emma looked thoughtful. “I don’t think she likes me very much. I met her on the street last week, and she seemed quite annoyed when I mentioned I’d met you in town.”
He frowned. “I know – she told me.” His tone was disapproving. “And to be honest, Emma, you put me in a bit of a spot. I had to think very fast.”
“I can imagine – look, it just came out in conversation,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble or anything.” She sighed. “Look, are you sure you don’t want to tell her? It would make it so much easier for both of –”
“I don’t want to tell her, Emma, believe me. She thinks our life and our marriage are perfect and for the most part they are – apart from me being too cowardly to . . . well, look, I just don’t have the heart to shatter her illusions about me. Not just yet.”
“As long as you’re sure,” she replied quietly. “But if you are ever ready to have it out with her, let me know. In the meantime, I’m here whenever you need me.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you, Emma. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re the only one who understands and, God knows, you’ve got enough to think about yourself. But you know I’m going to help you with that as much as I can, don’t you? It’s the very least I can do.”
Chapter 11
The following Monday afternoon, Liz approached the coffee shop in trepidation, Toby in tow. She felt pathetic sneaking around behind Eric’s back like this, but she had to know. She had to know if her husband had been telling the truth about meeting Colm for a drink the other night. Because if he hadn’t . . . well, Liz didn’t want to think about that just yet.
She pushed open the door and manoeuvred the buggy inside, smiling gratefully as a man – probably a tourist – jumped up from a nearby table and held the door open for her.
As she headed towards a vacant table, she smiled briefly at one of the staff, who was busy behind the counter serving coffee to customers. But the person Liz had really come to see today was nowhere in sight.
Having psyched herself up to come down here in the first place, Liz felt strangely disappointed that Colm wasn’t around. She positioned the buggy against the wall, sat down at the table and picked up a menu, her heart going like a jackhammer. What was she thinking, sneaking around and checking up on her husband? And what had she thought she was going to say to Colm if he had been here? “Hi, Colm, I just wanted to ask if my husband was really meeting you for a drink on Friday night, or if it was just an excuse to go and see his mistress?” He’d think she was some kind of hysterical psycho! Which Liz admitted ashamedly was exactly how she’d been behaving lately.
“Liz, hello!” As if on cue, Colm appeared in the kitchen doorway. “How are things?”
She coloured slightly as if he could somehow read her thoughts. “Great, thanks.” Of course, now that he was here, she was totally tongue-tied.
“Can I get you something?” he asked, crossing the room to talk to her. “Coffee, cappuccino – something like that? Or we have these fabulous caramel and hazelnut lattes – how about one of those?”
Liz thought about her thickening waistline and nonexistent exercise routine. “A black coffee would be great, thanks.”
“And for the gentleman?” Colm bent down and tickled the toddler’s chin, Toby smiling happily up at him. “A Coke or a cream bun maybe?”
“Thanks but he’s fine – I gave him something before we came out. Anyway, I’d be worried about what he’d do with a cream bun – he can be a nightmare with food and drink!”
Colm laughed. “The apple obviously hasn’t fallen far from the tree then because Daddy is a bit of nightmare with drink too! How was he after that last night?” He went to get Liz’s coffee. “I swear to God – it’s the last time I let him drag me out for ‘a quiet drink’. I think it was about two in the morning by the time we left the place!”
Immense relief immediately rushed through Liz. Thank God, thank God. She didn’t have to ask Colm anything: Eric hadn’t been lying to her at all; he had indeed met his friend for a drink.
But why had she convinced herself otherwise? Really, she’d have to get a hold on herself and stop behaving like a paranoid shrew; otherwise Eric would be perfectly within his rights to look elsewhere!
Significantly comforted, she smiled at Colm. “He was back very late that night.”
“Late back? You were lucky he went home at all! Himself and Jack Cummins were pleading with poor Paddy to keep serving them. Only for the fact the boys in blue were out and about at the time, I’d say the two of them would still be there propping up the bar.” He shook his head. “It was a great night though, and we all had a good laugh – although to be honest, the next morning I was cursing Eric through my hangover. Jesus, Liz, I’m just not able for drinking any more – certainly not the way I was when we were teenagers anyway!”
Liz smiled. She’d heard once or twice from Tara that Colm and Eric had been very fond of a few pints in their younger days. In fact, Tara had confessed once that she worried Eric would turn out like his dad, who had apparently been too fond of the black stuff for his own good and had died of liver failure many years before – well before Eric and Liz met.
“And speaking of teenagers,” Colm went on, putting a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, “I found those old photographs I was telling you about – the ones of me, Eric and Tara while we were still at school?”
“Oh, I’d love to see them whenever you get the time,” Liz enthused, genuinely interested.
“Well, look, wait here, and I’ll pop next door to get them. Nicky can look after things for a minute.”
Colm lived in a house adjoining the café – a small, beautifully restored Swiss-cottage-style residence, which, like the café, had wonderful views across the river towards the castle.
While awaiting Colm’s return, Liz sat back and exhaled deeply, feeling as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had to snap out of this, this pathetic, unreasonable, unwarranted insecurity. She was Eric’s wife and the mother of his child and he loved her. So what if he had a history with Emma Harrington? It was exactly that – history. So she really should cop on to herself and start giving her husband the trust and respect he deserved.
“Here we are!”
She looked up as Colm returned, a small bundle of photographs in his hand. He sat down at the table and slid into the seat alongside her. “I’m glad I went looking for them actually – they’re really very funny. I still can’t believe how much hair I had back then!”
“Are you sure you have the time to show them to me?” Liz asked, looking towards Nicky who was still busy behind the counter. “I don’t want to keep you.”
“Not at all, the place is dead at this hour of the day,” he said, gesturing around the café, which was indeed somewhat quieter than usual. “Give it another half hour, though, and they’ll all be in for lunch.”
“Well, as long as you’re sure.” Liz eagerly picked up the first photo in the pack, a great picture of a teenage Colm and Eric standing on one of the bridges, their arms around each other. Eric hadn’t changed much in the ensuing years, but Colm indeed had lots more hair then.
“Obviously he didn’t know about me at that stage,” Colm provided jokingly, “although, in all honestly, I hardly knew it myself!”
Liz smiled. Eric and Tara had told her before that Colm had been through the usual period of sexual confusion when he was younger, before eventually coming to terms with his true sexuality.
She went on to the next photo, again a picture of Eric, Colm and a couple of other boys around the same age, who according to Colm used to get up to “all sorts of divilment” together.
“That’s Dave McNamara
, you know – the local councillor?” Colm said, pointing at one of the boys.
“Don’t think I’ve met him yet,” Liz said, shaking her head.
“Believe me, you’d remember him if you had! A right ladies’ man is our Dave!”
“The Castlegate Casanova?”
“Exactly!” Colm laughed. “But where’s Eric in his reindeer jumper? There!” He pointed at another photo. “See?”
Liz’s eyes widened in amusement.
“I reckon Mammy McGrath knitted those for him,” said Colm.
“Oh dear,” Liz laughed, understanding why Colm had been so disparaging about her husband’s teenage fashion sense. “I sincerely hope she doesn’t start knitting them for Toby!”
“Mmm – as fashion disasters go, they’re pretty disastrous all right,” Colm laughed, flicking through some more photographs. “Oh, here’s a good one of us all – it was taken shortly after we left secondary school – the night of our debs, as you can probably tell. And speaking of fashion disasters, there’s Tara.”
Liz studied the photograph, unable to believe that this shy, gawky-looking teenager wearing a strapless, shapeless and utterly hideous pink dress could possibly be her stylish, confident good friend. The cerise pink colour clashed massively with her auburn hair, although the blonde highlights Tara sported these days made her hair-colour more strawberry-blonde than auburn. Still, there was no mistaking those lively eyes and that warm smile.
Colm and Eric were there too, smartly dressed in tuxedos and looking stiffly at the cameras. Liz was pretty certain that the bow-ties they were wearing didn’t stay on for very long after that photograph was taken.
“See that tall nerdy one with the braces?” Colm pointed to the girl standing alongside him, a tall, shy-looking kid who had evidently been the class geek. Liz hid a smile. “That’s Natasha Kelleher.”
“What?” Liz looked at him, shocked, and then peered closely at the girl in the photograph. “You don’t mean the model Natasha Kelleher! The gorgeous one who does the shampoo ads?”
“The very one.” Colm was delighted with himself. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Little did we know that it would turn out the class nancy brought the class celebrity to the debs! None of us had any idea the ugly duckling would turn out like that, no more than we knew I’d turn out –”
“And who’s this?” Liz interjected, pointing to a broad, athletic-looking teenager standing beside Tara.
She missed Colm’s surprised look. “He was Tara’s date?” she urged when he didn’t reply.
“Yes,” Colm answered slowly. “He was Tara’s date.”
“Well, there was certainly nothing ugly about him!” Liz laughed. “Lucky old Tara!”
Colm nodded and forced a smile. “Listen, Liz, sorry about this, but I’d better go back and give Nicky a hand.” He stood up quickly. “Do you mind looking through the rest of those on your own?”
“Of course not – go ahead. I’m enjoying myself actually – these are great! And I can’t wait to tease Tara about her horrible debs dress!”
Colm visibly paled. “Ah, don’t – she’d murder me for showing you these – Tara hated that dress afterwards.”
Liz laughed. “Well, I can certainly see why!”
“Liz, really, don’t say anything. She can be a bit touchy about it – honestly.”
She finally noticed the gravity in his tone and, surprised, found herself nodding. “All right, I won’t say a word.”
“Thanks, but listen, stay as long as you like, and if you need anything else be sure to ask, won’t you?”
“OK, sure,” Liz replied, picking up the remainder of the photographs and leaving Colm to get back to work. She was so engrossed in the pictures that she failed to question why he’d felt the need to rush off when the café was the quietest it had been all morning.
Liz’s relief about Eric’s supposed truthfulness about his night out didn’t last long.
A few days later, she was cleaning out one of the kennels when she heard the postman pull up in the driveway. She immediately stopped what she was doing and gave her hands a quick wipe on the towel before going out to meet him. The poor man was terrified of dogs which, given his profession, was understandable.
Approaching the delivery van, she called a greeting. “Morning, Shay! Anything exciting for me today?” Highly unlikely, given that the only post they usually received was circulars, bills and the odd bank statement.
From the driver’s seat, the postman flicked through a selection of envelopes. “The usual rubbish, I’m afraid . . . although no, hold on, here’s an interesting-looking one here.”
“Oh?”
He handed her a pink-coloured envelope and Liz examined it curiously. It was addressed to Eric, marked “Strictly Private” and the handwriting was slanting, decorative and Liz decided, her heart skipping a beat, very definitely female. What the hell . . .?
“See you later, Liz!” Shay called as he drove away.
Liz barely heard him. She was too busy trying to figure out what on earth might be in that letter.
Don’t be silly, it could be nothing, she remonstrated with herself, and more than likely something to do with work. But why would a security firm send correspondence in a feminine pink envelope? And why would they send it marked “Strictly Private”?
Deciding not to jump to conclusions, Liz put the letter away and resolved to ask Eric about it that evening.
“There’s post here for you,” she said, when he returned from work. She pointed out the girly scrawl and envelope. “Must be from your girlfriend,” she added jokingly.
Her heart nearly stopped when Eric blushed almost as pink as the envelope he was holding.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, quickly tucking the unopened letter into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I’ll open it later, OK?” he snapped, before walking out of the room and leaving Liz in turmoil.
Then, and this was what really sent her insecurities into overdrive, a couple of nights later, while Eric was at work, someone phoned the house.
Someone female.
“Hello, can I speak to Eric, please?” the woman asked in a no-nonsense tone.
“I’m afraid he’s at work at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“Is he? That’s odd,” the woman replied, and as she did Liz was sure she recognised the voice. It was bloody Emma Harrington, obviously trying to stir things up and put doubts in her brain once again! What was she playing at? And why was she doing this?
“I’m sorry – can I take a message?” Liz repeated, willing herself not to come right out and ask what she wanted with her husband.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll try his mobile,” the woman replied easily, as if it were nothing unusual for a married man to have strange women phoning him.
After she’d put the phone down, Liz was almost unable to move.
First the text from Emma, then the confidential strange-looking letter and now this phone call. What the hell was going on?
Chapter 12
It was three weeks after Steve had embarrassingly dumped her but, mercifully, Natalie was now beginning to get over it. What else could she do?
Granted she had sent Steve one or two late-night text messages tentatively suggesting that they talk about things, but she’d given up when he’d eventually replied: “Leave me alone, you psycho bitch!”
So that was that. Another love lost, another dream shattered.
In the meantime, she did what any normal broken-hearted girl would do and threw herself into her work even more. Jordan King, her latest recruit, was taking up much of her time, as she and Danni worked strenuously on keeping his profile squeaky clean, and strangely, Michael Sharpe, the regular thorn in Natalie’s side, seemed to be behaving himself. Evidently, yet another brush with the FA disciplinary board for kicking a Premiership referee up the arse during a recent match had given him something to think about, and for the moment he was bein
g a good boy. Although God only knew what he was up to in his spare time.
So as usual, work was going smoothly as ever while Natalie’s personal life went from bad to worse. And this time, it seemed she no longer had Freya at hand to help her get over it. Her best friend had since moved to an admittedly fabulous stately pile in Richmond – miles away from Central London and way too far for Natalie to pop over and cry on her shoulder like she used to when she lived in town. She’d phoned Freya the night after Steve dumped her – hoping for some much-needed sympathy.
“I always thought he was a prick anyway,” Freya told her helpfully. “You deserve much better than that.”
“But I really thought he was the one!” Natalie wailed down the line.
“Nat, you think every guy who looks at you half-arsed is ‘the one’,” Freya sighed. “Remember that time we had to take the tube?” She said the word “tube” as if the word itself was liable to infect her. A London girl all her life, Freya had only once or twice used the London Underground, and only when she was absolutely forced to, so convinced was she that the entire network was one of the Seven Circles of Hell. A while back, when the two needed to get from Oxford Street to Leicester Square in quick time and there wasn’t a taxi to be had for love or money, they’d racked their brains for a suitable alternative. Eventually Natalie tentatively suggested they take the tube.
“Ugh, too icky!” Freya had started scratching herself as if a swarm of ants had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and attached themselves to her Prada coat. But eventually she’d relented, and while on the train Natalie had become convinced that a guy sitting directly opposite and smiling in her direction fancied her, despite the fact that he looked (and smelt) as though he hadn’t lived indoors in decades.
“But he was kind of cute,” Natalie insisted now. “In a rough and ready sort of way.”
“Very definitely rough,” Freya agreed. “At least Steve was some kind of improvement.”
