Don't Marry Thomas Clark (27 page)

‘A pleasure,' Jake Doyle murmurs in response.

‘Mrs. Doyle, pleased to meet you,' I smile, while she takes my hand in hers in a gesture of almost maternal affection.

They are a pleasant couple in their sixties, both well-groomed, friendly and polite. She is wearing beautiful coral earrings and a cream shawl and has thick, ash-blonde hair worn in a bun, and a pair of gold glasses are perched on her aquiline nose. A dense network of wrinkles surrounds her eyes, and a thin layer of powder covers her cheeks. Very slender and not too tall, she looks as though a gust of wind would blow her away. Mr Doyle, though, is as tall as Thomas and of solid build. His hair is still black and contrasts with the thick grey beard that covers his chin.

‘Oh, Donna's here too,' says Gwendoline, and soon after a girl in her twenties with splendid black hair and a radiant smile arrives at our table.

Who's this, then?

She looks as if she's walked straight off the cover of a fashion magazine, and she's wearing an extremely elegant dress as nonchalantly as if it were a scruffy old tracksuit.

‘Mr. Clark, let me introduce you to the youngest of my daughters. Donna, this is Mr. Thomas Clark. This is Sandy Price, his fiancée.'

I'm clearly not deserving of a look, but as soon as she sees Thomas she lights up like a neon sign, complete with flashing arrows pointing at those two bulging “c” cups which are just overflowing with interpersonal skills.

‘Mr. Clark! Finally I get to meet you!' she says with a twinkling smile.

They greet each other, they exchange a few jokes. They laugh. How sweet. Please – go right ahead, don't mind me.

The agony doesn't last long, though. We're getting in the waiters' way, so we sit down, Mr and Mrs Doyle on the side of the balcony, and Thomas and I right opposite. Donna sits at the head of the table, next to Thomas. Well what a coincidence…

‘Are you ready to order?' asks the waiter.

The house speciality is the Irish Fish Chowder accompanied by croutons, so we all decide to try that after a seafood appetizer, and we order a bottle of the sparkling white wine so warmly recommended by the sommelier. When the waiter has left, the Doyles ask us if the journey has been pleasant.

‘We've been quite lucky. Apart from the other night, we haven't had any trouble from the stormy weather they'd forecast for this week,' says my better half.

‘It seems that it's headed north,' says Jake, sipping his wine.

‘Fortunately for us, yes. We've had the opportunity to visit quite a few of the small towns along the coast. And we went on a speedboat trip yesterday. The Irish landscape is really impressive.'

‘A speedboat trip? How wonderful!' trills Donna cheerfully whilst playing with a lock of hair.

‘I've always loved life on the open sea,' Thomas replies

Of course he does! They should have seen him last night, when he was throwing his guts up just because the sea was a tiny bit choppy.

‘Then we've got something in common. Just imagine – when I was a child, I used to dream of becoming a pirate,' she tells him, a bit of embarrassment in her voice.

And then she discovered Victoria's Secret, I think, suppressing a smirk.

‘I'm so glad you got to enjoy our country,' Jake continues, glowing with pride. ‘Even though there's only so much you can do in one day.'

‘My husband is right,' Gwendoline says. ‘There is
so
much to see.'

‘I'm sure there is, but unfortunately work calls me back to London,' says Thomas, putting his napkin on the table.

‘You must have a very busy life. I see you in the papers a lot, always off around the world. Receptions, concerts, charity dinners, Mr Clark. Don't you ever feel like you just want to get away from it all?' asks Donna, hanging on to his every word like a limpet on an Irish rock.

‘Actually, that was one of the things that prompted me to take this short cruise. But please, call me Thomas,' he proposes, running a hand through his hair.

Who does he think he is? Some Hollywood A-lister?

‘Oh, sure,' she says, staring at him like a lovesick doe.

I think I'm going to throw up.

‘So you're leaving tomorrow. What a shame,' she says. ‘We haven't even had a chance to get to know each other.' However will she recover?

‘That's true, but we've vowed to return as soon as possible,' he says, and rests his hand on mine. I wince. ‘Everything OK?' he asks, as he can't ignore my restlessness in front of everyone.

‘Yes, sorry,' I smile reassuringly. ‘I was miles away.'

‘Have you decided where you're going on your honeymoon?' asks Gwendoline.

‘Errr…' he mumbles. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence. ‘Errr… Japan?' he says finally.

‘France,' I reply.

‘No, we haven't quite decided yet,' he is forced to admit with an embarrassed smile.

‘Jake and I spent a magnificent fifteen days in Greece. It was still wild then, and you could really soak up the beautiful beaches of the Mediterranean. They tell me it's full of tourist resorts of questionable taste nowadays.'

‘Well, most of the beautiful seaside resorts are destined to end up like that. Especially with such inviting climates. A real boon for unscrupulous investors,' adds Jake. ‘All the more reason to consider a tour of Ireland. I could put you in touch with some of the best guides in Dublin. I'm sure you wouldn't be disappointed.'

‘Jake, dear,' says his wife. ‘Don't put our guests on the spot.'

‘Ah, no – that wasn't my intention,' he says, visibly contrite.

‘Don't worry. No problem,' Thomas reassures him, as a couple of waiters arrive and begin to fill the table with trays full of inviting things.

‘They look delicious,' says Gwendoline, clasping her hands together as if she's about to say a prayer.

‘Thomas, would you pass me the croutons, please?' asks Donna and, like a sheepdog hearing a whistle, he leaps into action, accompanied by nauseating flummery.

‘Miss Price, please, help yourself,' says Jake, handing me the tray.

At that moment I think back to Thomas's comments about the way I eat, and feel a sudden weight in my stomach. I spend the rest of the meal hardly nibbling anything, for fear of making a mess of myself or being too noisy or breaking a breadstick the wrong way. I have the absurd feeling, God knows why, that I must make a good impression. Not so much as for what they might think of me, but more for the fact that I don't want to come off badly compared to the impeccable daughter of Mr and Mrs Doyle.

The conversation starts up again, sometimes focusing on issues related to the management of Jake's company and at others on the many talents of his daughter. There doesn't seem to be anything she can't do: Her Holiness paints, reads and plays the harp. In her spare time she's a model, but at the moment she's studying law and her dream is to become a judge in the juvenile court. Yes, all those august halls needed was a touch of colourful folklore to finish them off.

‘And what do you do?' asks the gentle creature, after listing all the volunteer work she's involved in.

‘Oh, I run a bistro with some friends,' I explain, trying to force a smile.

‘Ah,' is her only comment, before going back to pestering Thomas with her nosiness. ‘So, is it true that you're a champion archer?' she asks, acting as though she's been waiting all her life for this revelation.

‘Champion is a bit of an exaggeration,' answers Thomas, but you can see from a mile off that he's melting under the flattery.

In an attempt to avoid giving myself hyperglycaemia, I decide to stop eating, and it helps me make it through the meal in one piece.

‘Aren't you hungry?' ask Thomas in amazement when they take away my plate, containing a virtually untouched slice of the most beautiful chocolate cake I have ever seen.

‘No – you monster!' my eyes scream, when I see the waitress throw it carelessly amongst the dirty dishes left on the cart.

‘Actually not really, but it was all very good,' I say, trying to bring my attention back to the others.

‘Don't worry about it,' says Jake, ‘Gwendoline's not much of a big eater either. It must be common among women of a slim build, don't you find? They eat like birds,' he says, turning to Thomas, who quickly swallows a mouthful, trying not to choke.

‘That's not exactly the simile I would have chosen, but there's probably something in it. It might not be applicable in
every
case, but potentially… ow!'

‘Did you hurt yourself?' asks Gwendoline worriedly, noting his sudden grimace of pain.

‘No, nothing serious,' he says, slightly embarrassed. ‘Just a touch of cramp in my foot.'

‘It must be the damp. It's
terribly
damp today, unfortunately,' says Mrs. Doyle, visibly upset.

‘In fact, that's exactly that I wanted to talk about,' says her husband. ‘Taking into consideration the weather, why don't you stay with us tonight instead of going back out to the boat. Normally we stay in our flat in the centre of town, but we have a wonderful house less than an hour's drive away and tonight we've organized a little shindig to celebrate the purchase of a new painting for my collection, so I will have the pleasure of receiving the nation's leading politicians and intellectuals. It would be a real pleasure if you would join us, especially since you'll soon be the new director of I.G.S.'

‘Oh that sounds wonderful, but we couldn't possibly.'

‘I won't hear of you not coming. Gwendoline, dear, you tell them!'

‘I can assure you that we would be overjoyed to have you with us. Jake was so happy to finally meet you and I'm sure that the other members of the board, who will all be there tonight, would really like to as well. And that way, tomorrow morning you could take the opportunity to go horse riding. We have wonderful stables and usually, when friends come to stay, we go for a ride through the lovely forests near the house.'

‘Oh… yes, please do, Thomas,' chirps Donna, resting her hand on his. ‘You can't not come. It's going to be a wonderful party. ‘

‘Have we managed to tempt you?' Mrs Doyle asks finally.

‘Absolutely,' says Thomas, who, more interested in the opportunities for making new contacts than anything else, can't wait to accept.

So everyone looks at me now and he doesn't seem to realize that this is the moment when it would be natural to ask whether his beloved fiancée is of the same opinion. But it seems he's too busy being dazzled by the delightful smile of our bubbly guest.

‘Ouch!'

‘Another cramp, dear?' I ask him, touching his arm affectionately.

‘Er, yes. Really strange,' he says with a hint of sarcasm.

‘It's the damp, didn't you hear?'

‘That's right, it's the damp. Weather like this gets your rheumatism going, and there's nothing you can do about it,' says Gwendoline.

I look him in the eyes. Nothing, not a glimmer of understanding. Completely flatlining. I stare at him. He stares back at me.

My glare becomes more intense, then suddenly…

‘Ah… Err… Darling, what do you think, would you like to spend the evening with Mr and Mrs Doyle?'

Now that's
much
better!

‘Of course, darling. I'd
love
to!'

We go back to the boat to pick up a change of clothing for tomorrow and get ready for tonight. Since we left the Doyles, the atmosphere between us has been strange, but I try to ignore the tension that seems to be growing. The task is made more difficult than expected by the fact that he keeps buzzing around me, trying to get my attention.

‘So, what did you think of them?' he asks, folding a shirt and placing it among my things.

‘They're nice.'

‘What about him?'

‘…nice?' I say, raising my hand, palm upwards.

‘I mean, do you think he's interested.'

‘I don't think you're his type,' I answer, putting a pair of jeans on top of his shirt.

‘I'm serious.'

‘Since when have you been interested in my opinion?'

‘Forget it, never mind,' he says, removing the jeans I've just slipped in and putting in a pair of his own. ‘Why are you taking out my stuff? This is my bag!'

‘Didn't we decide to only take one bag?'

‘So why are you the only one allowed to use it?'

‘Because we are deciding on my change of clothing and then when I am sure you're not going to crumple it all up, we'll take care of yours. Simple, right?'

‘If you don't like the way I fold my clothes, then, as I said before, it would be best if we had a bag each,' I snap, throwing down my trousers on top of his shirt so hard that they almost fall onto the floor.

‘Hmph…' he snorts. ‘OK, let's mix everything up.' He takes out his boxers and socks to let me add my underwear, a sweater and the necessary items for the bathroom, but bridles when he sees me putting in the bubble bath, shouting ‘No, come on… That has to be kept separate! I still have to sort out the rest of my clothes.'

‘I don't get it: what is it with this mania of yours for sharing space?'

‘Why should I carry two suitcases when one will do?'

‘I don't remember anyone asking you to carry my suitcase for me,' I answer, removing my bathroom stuff, scooping the rest of his clothes from the drawer and putting them into the bag.

‘If I remember correctly, we agreed on this in Dover.'

‘No,
you
agreed on it. I simply decided to ignore you.'

‘As always. Yes, I know the feeling,' he says as he dumps his laptop on top of the blue jerseys with an angry gesture.

‘Locking me in the attic and hiding my toys didn't exactly encourage me to pursue our relationship. Now can I put these in? ‘I plead, pointing to the bubble bath, shampoo and deodorant.