“Old friends,” she repeated.
They drank in silence. “Good honeymoon?” he asked.
“Amazing!” Immediately, she wished she hadn’t been so enthused.
“Malaysia, I hear. Tell me.”
“Well—”
“An obvious military police presence?” David prompted.
“I didn’t see any sign of it,” Maeve said truthfully.
“Didn’t you?” He sounded surprised. Disappointed, actually. She realized he’d have loved a story about fascisty storm troopers beating the tar out of local Hindus for some small show of faith, like letting a cow cross the road. She was sorry she couldn’t oblige.
He changed his tack. “So Islam’s in the driving seat?”
“God, I dunno, David. I’m not sure. Some of the women were veiled, some weren’t.”
“Interesting.” Thoughtfully, he drummed his fingers on his chin.
“It’ll come back to bite them, but for the moment Malaysia’s doing a canny job of walking that line.”
She knew what line he was talking about, the one between American cultural imperialism and fundamentalist Islam. She cared about world politics too, but suddenly she understood that David had no interest in positive interpretations; it was like he wanted everything to be as bad as it could possibly be.
“I’ve missed you, Maeve.” He reached out his hand and began to twirl his fingers in the curls at her neck. She sat very still. This felt wrong, but she’d been so cruel she couldn’t add to the hurt by asking him to stop.
“I hope that we can be friends, David.”
“Like the old days?”
“Like the old days, exactly! And when you get to know Matt properly, you’ll love him—”
With an unexpected move, David was right in front of her and, to her shock, she realized he was about to kiss her. Quickly, she turned her head so that his mouth landed on her ear. “David, sorry, you know we can’t do this.”
He nuzzled at her neck and she said, “Sorry, David—look, I think I’d better go.”
“But you haven’t seen your wedding present.”
She stood up. “Don’t worry about it. Give it to me some other time. Sorry, but I’m going to go.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of.” He seemed surprised and wounded. “After what you did to me, I just want to give you a wedding present.”
“I know, it’s just—”
“Come on, come and see it.”
“Why? Where is it?”
“In there.” He pointed toward his bedroom.
“Oh . . . no, David,” she said haltingly. “Just bring it out here.”
“I can’t, it’s too big. Just come in.”
“Sorry, David, I don’t feel right . . .”
He sighed heavily. “Have you any idea how this is making me feel?” He looked at her with injured eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you. Come on, it’s cool, you’ll love it.”
“Okay.” This was David, David.
As he opened the bedroom door, he said, “Close your eyes.”
She felt the weight and heat of his hands on her shoulders, guiding her forward.
“Such a big deal.” She laughed. “This’d better be worth it.”
Day 6
Rosie had her eyes tightly shut. She heard the whizzy sound of jeans being taken off, then the rustle of cotton (that must be his shirt going). She lay, naked and rigid, wondering what would happen next, and when Andrei’s cold hand landed on her stomach, she jumped.
“Is okay,” he crooned. “All okay, beautiful Rosie.”
He was kissing her, her face, her mouth, her throat. Somewhere out there was his . . . thing. Hard and swollen. She knew what an erection was like; she’d done six months on the geriatric ward, where dementia-riddled men playing with themselves were ten a penny.
Andrei was going to stick his thing into her and it would hurt and he’d grunt and shout and sweat and swear and then it would be over and she’d still have a boyfriend.
She had always feared her life would come to this, ever since the age of six, when she’d watched Grease and seen that Olivia Newton-John had to become a bad girl to keep her man.
You better shape up . . .
Being virtuous and ladylike didn’t seem to be keeping a hold of Andrei, so she was gambling her virginity and going for broke.
Her eyes still closed, she could feel Andrei at himself. Probably putting on the condom.
It’s six days too soon but could I jump the gun here? It’s the best chance I’ve had so far. Never mind the condom, that could be dealt with, no bother. I could tear it or burst it or, even before it’s properly on, a couple of brave little sperms could leak, all you need is one, after all. But, entre nous and forgive me for being picky, I don’t really like Rosie. Andrei’s grand, a bit intense, God love him, but a decent man at heart. I wouldn’t mind him. But not her.
Rosie screwed her eyes up tighter. In a moment, Andrei would clamber on top of her and he’d plunge it right in. Her entire body tensed at the thought. It would be awful, but worth it and . . . What was taking him so long? She was starting to get chilly. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Andrei said. Something was wrong. He sounded ashamed.
She opened her eyes. “What?”
“I don’t know . . .”
She sat up, leaned on her elbows and looked down. Where was the big purple battering ram? What was that shy, floppy, pink-and-white marshmallow thing?
Andrei turned and buried his face in his pillow. “I’m sorry, my Rosie.” His voice was muffled but there was no mistaking his anguish.
Rosie went cold with horror. She’d called this all wrong. This was the worst possible thing she could have done, showing up at Andrei’s flat and undressing herself and lying on his bed like a haddock on a slab. He wasn’t that sort of man.
“I understand,” she said, trying to radiate calm and retrieve what she could. With men, you must never show fear. Not real fear. Fake fear, obviously, when it was called for, to make them feel like the big man. But at a time like this you must take control. “You have too much respect for me.”
Pertly, she hopped off the bed and began to dress herself. Andrei’s face was still plunged into his pillow.
“I’ll pop the kettle on,” she said brightly. “And see you out in the sitting room.”
Day 6 . . .
Conall tumbled on to the wide hotel bed and eased his shoes off. Better book an alarm call before he fell asleep. He could set his phone but he didn’t know what time it was here in Manila. At least he knew where he was. Then he had such a terrible thought that he groaned out loud: he’d forgotten to buy a new shirt and underwear today. It was over two weeks since he’d started crisscrossing Southeast Asia and his carry-on case barely held the basics. He’d run out of clean clothes forever ago, but he wasn’t in any place long enough to get his laundry done so since Jakarta he’d been buying and discarding as he went.
He’d have to ring the concierge. He’d have to make nice. Christ.
“Concierge desk. How may I help you, Mr. Hathaway?”
“I have a special request.”
“Certainly, sir!”
Your man was thinking, Girls! Conall realized. He didn’t want a girl. He had a lovely girlfriend at home. A vague impression of bosoms and feminine fragrance comforted him. Katie. No, not Katie. A new one now. Lydia, yes, his hard shiny little diamond.
“I need a couple of shirts and some underwear.”
“Certainly, sir. Anything else, sir?”
“Well, actually . . .” Bronagh had sent an email reminding him of her birthday.
As you are my uncle, my godfather and the only millionaire in the family, I’d like a good present.
“Could you get a birthday present for a little girl?”
“What age?”
“Seven.” Or was it eight? One of those ones.
He woke with a terrible start. Where was he? A hotel room . . . could be any one of
millions. Someone was knocking, that was what had woken him. Smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to scare away the appalling dryness, he opened the door. It was a helpful young lad bearing Conall’s new shirts and jocks and a pair of sapphire earrings for Bronagh. Conall pawed around in his pocket and found currency of some description, with which he despatched the youth.
He looked at the clock. Nearly 5 a.m. Might as well make phone calls now that he was awake and it was some sort of time in Ireland.
“Happy birthday, Bronagh!”
Bronagh sighed elaborately. “Conall. A day late and a dollar short. As usual. My birthday was yesterday.”
“I’m in Asia. Today is tomorrow.”
“Then you’re two days late.”
Christ, she was right.
“I’m eight years of age. You’re my uncle and my godfather. I reminded you, I made it easy for you, and still you disappoint me.”
Holy Christ. This was way too reminiscent of too many other phone calls.
“Better go now, hon. See you when I’m back.”
Quickly, he rang Lydia.
“Hathaway?” she said briskly. “Are you home?”
“In Manila.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, I had to come back. A problem arose with the Cambodian—”
“Lalalalala. I can’t hear you. Oooouuuuuuh!” She ceased wailing and asked cautiously, “Is it safe? Have you stopped?”
“Yeah.” She’d told him not to talk to her about his work, that it was too boring. He could describe his hotel room to her, though, any time he felt like. Or the breakfast buffets, especially the hot plates where they made the pancakes.
“When are you coming home?”
“Some time next week.”
“You said it would be this weekend.”
“Like I said, things changed. The situa—”
“Whateves.”
Day 6 . . .
Andrei was plunged into the long dark night of the soul. His manhood had failed him. It was the first time he’d been the victim of such a humiliation. Normally, he was supremely sexually confident.
And there was more bad news in store.
When Jan came home from work, he announced that he had been made redundant and was returning to Poland. For good.
“There are no more jobs here. And I want to go home. So does Magdalena.”
Andrei was deeply shocked. Jan was his buddy, practically his brother. They’d arrived in Ireland on the same flight, and they’d shared everything from a bedroom to confidences to beers over the past two years.
And if Jan went, he’d be left alone with the pixie, just the two of them.
“Wait until after our visit home,” Andrei said, in some desperation. In less than a week they were both going to Gdansk for their summer holidays. “You’re homesick—so am I! But time with your family and friends will give you strength to get a new job and endure this Ireland for another year.”
Jan shook his head. “No new job. When we go on Friday, I’m not coming back.”
Jan wasn’t the brightest, but once his mind was made up, it stayed made. Nothing could talk him out of a decision. Uncomfortably, Andrei wondered if he had guessed about himself and the evil pixie. Jan had a keen sense of right and wrong, keener even than Andrei’s, and those sorts of high jinks would distress him terribly.
The thought of living in Ireland without Jan made him very sad, almost frightened. And the way he had disgraced himself with Rosie . . . surely she wouldn’t bother with him again?
Perhaps he’d just stay in Poland with Jan.
No, Andrei, no!
Day 5 (early hours of)
Andrei turned his pillow over again. For a few blessed moments, the cool cotton gave relief to his fevered face, then it wore off. He’d never known a night so long. Something must have gone wrong with time; it felt like it had been Sunday night for about a week. Was daylight ever going to come? He shifted and thrashed, unable to find escape from his tormenting thoughts. This was the issue: he had no idea if his marshmallow-textured failure was an isolated incident or if he was doomed for it to recur. He was so frightened of discovering the situation was ongoing that he wasn’t sure he could chance having sex ever again.
Not that Rosie was likely to insist on any such thing—even if he could win her back, she was evidently repulsed by the sexual act . . . What a virtuous little flower she was. Such modesty was rare, yet she had offered herself up to him like a sacrifice on an altar. All of a sudden he was so humbled by how a good woman had gone bad in the name of love, that he wept into his overheated pillow.
Oh! If only daylight would come.
But as the sun began to rise, Andrei’s shame at failing to consummate the deed with Rosie began to soften and blossom into a new and unexpected emotion: gratitude. Of course he couldn’t have committed such an abomination on his little petal! Not until they were married.
Or engaged, at any rate.
As pearly, early morning light began to slip under his curtains, hope, beautiful hope, lifted him, and a course of action revealed itself, a daring but clear imperative. There could be no more Lydia. He needed to put himself beyond her reach forever. As this vision became a convincing possibility, his load became light, almost airborne. Quietly, in order to not wake Jan, he extracted a roll of banknotes from a sock on the floor of the wardrobe. He showered, dressed and drank two cups of coffee, and he was actually in the hall, almost gone, almost safe, when the rattle of a key in the lock made his heart plunge. Lydia was home from work. The door pushed open and she landed into the hall. She looked at him, he looked at her and a whiplash of sex crackled around them.
“No,” he called, in terrible anguish. He threw himself at the open doorway. He had to escape, before she lured him in and ruined all his plans. He plunged headlong down the stairs, down, down, down; then he was in the street, walking fast until he was well beyond her reach.
He moved with purpose. He knew exactly where he was going: a small jeweler’s on South Anne Street. He and Rosie had looked in the window one night, pointing out rings they liked, like people in a 1960s soap opera.
He had a certain amount of time to kill—the shop didn’t open until 9 a.m. and it was now only 6:35—but he remained clear-headed and focused, and by the time the jeweler rolled up the metal door guard and permitted him ingress, he was more sure than ever of the rightness of his path.
Andrei knew precisely which ring Rosie wanted. But he couldn’t afford that. So he bought another one, the second cheapest in the shop. It was a simple band with a single diamond: sweet and humble, like Rosie herself. Then he made his way to her house where he rang the bell and got down on one knee.
In answer to his prayers, it was Rosie and not one of her housemates who answered the door.
“Rosie,” he said, blind to the relief that rolled behind her eyes as he proffered the small velvet box. “Will you marry me?”
Day 5 . . .
“You’re not going to believe it.” Fionn stalked into Katie’s flat and threw a fax on to the kitchen table. “Look at that.”
Katie smoothed out the crumpled page and gleaned the salient facts. Curses! Network 8 had put Fionn’s show back by four weeks. They’d just managed to buy the rights to DOA, a hot U.S. crime show, and had decided to run that in the slot they’d earmarked for Your Own Private Eden.
“They offered Grainne Monday night instead, but she said that Monday night gets the worst viewing figures of the week. So they came back with Sunday night at nine, but we’ve got to wait until Around Ireland in a Roasting Tin finishes up and they’ll put me in there instead.”
“Oh poor Fionn.”
“There’s heat around me,” Fionn said, obviously quoting Grainne. “I’m on fire right now. But we’ve to wait another four weeks. And then it might be too late.”
Katie couldn’t think of a thing to say. The media did inexplicable things all the time. She’d been burned on occasions far too numerous to count. How many
times had she given an exclusive interview to a paper to publicize an Irish concert, only for the piece to disappear, then reappear long after the concert had happened and the artist had departed? She was used to it, but Fionn was an innocent newbie. His disillusionment was going to be painful.
Once a network began messing with transmission dates, it was usually an indication of a lack of confidence and a reshuffling of their priorities. Even if they still had complete faith in the show, the trajectory of success was interfered with; something was lost that could never be retrieved.
“Put on your happy face,” Katie coaxed. “We’re due at the Merrion in forty-five minutes, to bask in Bob Geldof’s gorgeousness.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Oh, Fionn . . .”
“I feel like everyone will be laughing at me. I’m the television gardener without a show.”
“You do have one.”
But until it started running, he didn’t, actually.
“And what am I meant to do? We finish filming on Friday.”
Katie understood exactly what he meant: until the show aired, Excellent Little Productions had no idea whether or not it would be recommissioned. Should Fionn hang around and see what happened? Or should he go back, even temporarily, to Pokey, to hold on to his customers? Katie’s stomach lurched as she realized that uncertain times loomed. For Fionn’s bank account. For Fionn’s ego. Perhaps for Fionn’s romance?
Day 5 . . .
Matt’s mobile beeped. A text.
Ure a prik.
It was from Russ. Matt still hadn’t sent the check reimbursing Russ for the flight to Vegas he’d booked for him. He’d sworn black was white that Russ would get it today, but Matt couldn’t do it. Maeve would notice the money gone from their account and it would blow the whole thing sky-high because what it came down to was that Matt couldn’t go to Vegas for his brother’s stag party. It was out of the question. To be gone a whole week? Maeve couldn’t stay in the flat on her own and there was no Plan B. All their friends were gone. The only people left were her mum and dad and they were in Galway, too far away.