She gives me a puzzled smile.
‘But
you’re
not drinking because you’re unhappy.’
I sniff and blow my nose.
Maybe not.
It’s very late. We all traipse up to the bedrooms together, in a straggly tired group, whispering goodnight to each other. Mum and Auntie Joyce have missed out on all this drama; they’d come back to the hotel before things got really freaky back there at the pub. I’m glad they didn’t have to see it.
It’s odd being in this room without Jude. I feel strangely lonely, getting into my single bed, lying down and looking at the other empty bed across the room. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t get much sleep last night either; I’m so tired I feel like my eyes are going to come out of the back of my head. I turn off the light and close my eyes. And it’s only now that I start thinking:
So what did Matt really say to Emily?
Bugger. I so
wasn’t
going to think any more about this. I was going to shut it out of my mind till I got home. I’ve got to trust Emily, haven’t I. Now I’ve sobered up, I realise how ridiculously paranoid my reaction was to her meeting with Matt. She had my best interests at heart – I should never have doubted her. She only met up with him because she knew I was upset. And she kept quiet about the meeting because she didn’t want to worry me. That’s all. Emily’s a good friend. She would never do anything to hurt me. How could I have
thought
that?
So what was all that about him being confused and mixed up?
About what?
Or about whom?
I toss and turn, and turn and toss. I sit up and punch my pillow, shake it and throw it back down. I put the light back on, have a drink of water, turn the light off again. Still I can’t stop my mind going over and over and over.
Why
did he say he was mixed up?
Why
did Emily look so embarrassed and shifty?
What
is she hiding from me?
It must be about five o’clock before I finally drift into a troubled, twitchy sleep. I dream that Matt’s working with Greg at Bookshelf. Greg gives me piles and piles of horrible scientific books to read. He piles them so high on my desk that I can’t see Matt any more over the top of them. Then he suddenly appears on my side of the barricade, naked, and we start to have sex on the desk. At first I resist, but to my surprise, he turns out to be a fantastic lover. I want to enjoy it, but I can’t because I’m worried Matt will see us.
Don’t worry about him
, says Greg.
He’s having it off with Helen.
They’re going to Australia together in the morning.
‘No! Not Helen! No!’ I’m moaning when I wake up. I look at the clock. Shit, I’ve only been asleep for twenty minutes. This is ridiculous. I’ve got to think about something else.
I put the light back on yet again and reach for
Love in the Afternoon.
Chapter Two
Georgia couldn’t wait to see James again. She’d tried her best to fight the attraction – after all, it was completely pointless. James was a rich, powerful man and Georgia knew he’d only ever see her as his secretary – the silly little new girl, who couldn’t even do shorthand or spreadsheets like the famous Mary who worked for him before. When he was in her office, standing behind her, watching her clumsily working on the document he was waiting for, she became all fingers and thumbs and felt herself growing hot and bothered under his impatient gaze.
This is crap. Still, I suppose it’s going to get to the sex scenes soon; Ginny Ashcroft’s novels are always fifty per cent crap, fifty per cent soft porn. I doubt whether this one would even have got as far as a publishing contract if she wasn’t already a best-seller. It’s hardly worth reading on, because I already know Georgia is going to end up on the desk with her knickers round her ankles and James shafting her from behind while he waits for his important document.
I’m surely not getting bored with romantic fiction, am I?
I’m so shocked by this thought, I actually flip a chapter or two forward and start reading one of the sex scenes, just to liven up my own interest. Yes, this is better. Georgia’s sitting astride James on his leather executive chair, unbuttoning her blouse and getting her tits out when I’m sure she really ought to be getting on with that typing. It didn’t take her long to stop worrying about it all being completely pointless, then, by the look of it.
She’s gasping with pleasure and he’s groaning as she arches her back and they give in to the sensations of the moment.
Why am I reading this rubbish? I slam the book shut and throw it back on the bedside table. I’m going to give it a bad review, and I’ve only read about twenty pages of it. It’s not that I’m bored with romance. Of course I’m not. I
love
romance, but this isn’t it. Romance is about walking on the beach in the moonlight with someone you really love; not about shagging someone in the office because he’s powerful and filthy rich and he’s got a leather executive chair, for God’s sake.
I fall asleep again with the light still on, and instantly start to dream that it’s
me
sitting astride the boss with my skirt up round my waist, gasping with pleasure and giving into the sensation. The dream is so erotic I can remember every detail of it when I wake up. I want to dream it again. How bad is that? Because the boss in my dream wasn’t some fictional rich and groaning James. And it wasn’t Matt, either. It was Harry.
Once again we’re a sorry looking group at breakfast this morning. Mum and Joyce are the only two who look even halfway to being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and they soon lose their cheerful smiles when we fill them in on last night’s events. I’ve been a bit economical with the facts actually. I haven’t told them about Emily and me fighting. I might be over thirty but I still don’t want my mum to hear about anything really bad that I’ve done, if I can help it. Do we ever grow out of needing our mums to think the best of us?
‘Poor little Judy!’ gasps Mum. ‘Is she going to be all right? Shouldn’t someone have stayed at the hospital with her?’
‘No, she didn’t want that. She was practically asleep when we left her. We’re going back as soon as we’ve had breakfast. They’re going to discharge her this morning.’
‘
We’ll
go back,’ says Mum firmly. ‘Joyce and I. We can go to the hospital this morning, and let you girls go off and have your fun.’
‘No, don’t be silly, I’ll go. I can bring Jude back in a taxi.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Emily at once.
‘No, Katie, Emily – Margie’s right,’ says Joyce. ‘You girls looked after poor Jude last night; let us go to the hospital this morning and bring her back. We’d like to, wouldn’t we, Marge? You can all go off and do whatever you’ve got planned for your last day.’
‘Not without Jude,’ I say, stubbornly.
‘Katie,’ points out Lisa, ‘I don’t think Jude’s ankle will be up to her traipsing round the shops, to be quite honest.’
‘No. She shouldn’t be traipsing round the shops anyway, when she’s just come out of hospital,’ says Mum, going straight into Nurse Mother mode. ‘She needs to come back to the hotel and rest, and be looked after. Joyce and I will take charge!’
‘Poor Jude,’ I mutter.
‘She’d probably prefer a couple of stiff drinks,’ suggests Joyce.
She looks completely taken aback when we all start groaning and turning white at the mention of drink. I haven’t told her yet that I’ve given up.
With Jude’s rescue from the hospital being taken out of our hands, the rest of us decide the right thing to do is to carry on with the proposed shopping expedition to Grafton Street.
‘It’s what she’d want us to do,’ points out Emily. ‘She’ll be on our case, otherwise, about going home without any souvenirs of Ireland.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Maybe we can buy her something to make up for missing out.’
‘That’d be cool. But she’s been shopping in Dublin lots of times, hasn’t she, so I don’t think it’ll be too devastating for her.’
Fortunately, as none of the rest of us have much of a grasp of geography, Jude’s Dublin guidebook is lying neatly on her bedside table, and from its pullout map of the city centre we can see that the main shopping streets are only a short stroll away from where we’re staying.
‘Let’s cross the river,’ suggests Lisa, pointing to the map while we all try to peer over her shoulders, ‘and walk up O’Connell Street on one side and down on the other. Then we can cross back over and do Grafton Street.’
‘If we haven’t spent all our money by then,’ says Karen.
‘Pace yourself, girl!’
‘Come on, then! Let’s get going!’
‘Yeah, my last few euros are burning a hole in my purse!’
‘I need a new handbag!’
‘I want to look for shoes.’
‘A new dress for Katie’s wedding!’
We seem to be pretty cheerful again, then, as we set off from the hotel for our major shopping expedition. Not that we’ve forgotten about poor Jude lying in her hospital bed. But she wouldn’t want us all to be moping around, on our last day, would she? She’d want us to be having fun and spending money. Helping the Irish economy. That’s the way we’re looking at it.
I’m not too good at working out the exchange rate, but I’m getting the impression that everything’s more expensive in Dublin than it is at home.
‘Yeah, no point buying things from shops like Next or River Island that we’ve got at home. You’ll end up paying more,’ says Lisa.
She’s found a couple of things for the kids. A book of Irish fairy stories for Molly; an Irish whistle for Charlie. Little green leprechaun hats for both of them.
‘I suppose I’d better buy something for Richard,’ she says without any enthusiasm.
‘What about Andy?’ I ask her. I’m intrigued. Do you buy presents for your lover
and
your husband? Just one? Just the other?
‘He gets his present when I get home,’ she says, winking at me. But there’s a catch in her voice as she says it.
‘Do you love him?’ I ask her very quietly.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel. I think I’m frightened to ask myself that.’
‘But he wants you to leave Richard and live with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘He loves
you
.’
‘Yes. He says he does.’
‘Don’t you want to be happy, Lise?’
She looks at me sharply.
‘Katie, it’s just not that simple. Not when you’ve got children.’
‘But nowadays loads of people split up – children adapt.
We
should know that, better than anybody. It didn’t hurt us, did it – growing up without our dad.’
‘Look,’ she says, patiently, laying a hand on my arm. ‘Look, perhaps I do love Andy. I know I don’t love Richard any more. But more than anything, more than anything in the world, I love my kids. They come before
everything
else – and
they
love
Richard
. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt them. You’ll understand, when you have children yourself.’
When I have children myself.
I feel so stricken at the thought of this that I can’t even reply.
‘You will, one day,’ says Lisa, glancing at my face. ‘Of course you will.’
‘I’m thirty-one. You’ve heard what Mum says. An elderly primigravida.’
‘Thirty-one’s nothing these days. People are having babies when they’re middle-aged. Once you’re married, once everything’s settled down . . .’
‘I haven’t really thought about it much before. Not till now.’
‘Well, your body’s telling you – you see? You’re
ready
now.’
I think my body and I are about to have a major falling-out.
Celtic jewellery is what most of us are buying. I’ve got myself a silver necklace and matching earrings. I’ve bought a necklace for Jude too.
We stop for coffee and compare all our purchases. Emily’s bought so much, I think she’s going to need another suitcase.
‘Most of these are for Sean,’ she says lightly, rummaging through her carrier bags. ‘He never goes out and buys stuff for himself.’
‘That’s sweet,’ says Karen, who’s only been buying for herself. ‘What about you, Katie? What have you bought for Matt?’
There’s a heartbeat of silence before Emily answers for me, quick as a flash:
‘She’s giving him
herself
, isn’t she? Christ, isn’t that enough of a present for any man?’
But the carrier bags full of clothes and gifts for Sean sit between us on the café floor, taking on the dimensions of a mountain in their significance.
We’re just about to pay the bill and move on for the next hour of shopping when my phone bleeps with a message.
Where are you? Can we join you?
‘It’s Joyce,’ I tell the others, puzzled. ‘I don’t think they ought to be bringing Jude…’
‘Not for
traipsing round the shops!
’ says Lisa, imitating our mum.
I quickly text Joyce back:
What about Jude?
Still in the hospital. Got to go back for her later,
comes the reply.
It doesn’t take long to arrange to wait for Mum and Auntie Joyce here in the café, and we don’t need much persuasion to stay for another coffee. But I’m tense with anxiety about Jude.
‘What’s happened?’ I demand as soon as they appear. ‘Why hasn’t she been discharged?’
‘Oh, they needed her to stay for a bit longer,’ says Mum vaguely.
‘Just waiting for the doctor to give her the all-clear,’ says Joyce, smiling too brightly.
‘You’re worrying me. Tell me. What’s happened? Is there something wrong?’
‘Oh, no, no, nothing to worry about.’
‘No, she’ll be fine, she’s just waiting for the doctors…’
‘OK!’ says Lisa, sharply and very loudly. Everyone looks at her in shocked expectation. ‘OK, come on, you’ve got us all worried now. You’d better tell us. It can’t be worse than what we’re all imagining.’