Page 108 of The Honeymoon Affair

Call me asap

Iseult replies with a thumbs-up emoji. Charles snorts, then puts his phone into his pocket.

‘I hate that she texts me all the time,’ he says. ‘I’d have a better idea of what was really going on if she’d call.’

‘That’s Gen . . . God, what Gen is she?’ I ask. ‘Gen X? Y? Z? Another letter of the alphabet?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

I take out my own phone and search.

‘Charles! You and I are Generation X,’ I tell him. ‘She’s . . . How old is she again?’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘She’s a Millennial.’

‘They’re nothing more than labels.’ He shrugs.

‘But a label is useful in determining how people behave,’ I say. ‘Presumably Millennials are the ones who hate speaking on the phone and only communicate by text. Or maybe she finds it easier to text you when she’s rushing to the side of her ex-fiancé like a ministering angel so that she doesn’t have to answer awkward questions.’

He ignores my comment and looks at his phone again. There are no more messages from Iseult.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘No need to be here any longer. Let’s grab a bite to eat while we wait for her to call you.’

I think he’s going to say no, but he doesn’t. He follows me out of the library and towards Dawson Street, where I usher him into a small Italian restaurant that’s a favourite of mine. Even midweek it’s busy, and I worry that there won’t be a table, but Gennaro, the head waiter, finds us a lovely little booth at the back.

‘Perfect,’ I say as I slide into the banquette opposite Charles. He seems to think so too as he unwinds his scarf from around his neck and almost visibly relaxes.

He places his phone on the table between us. We order some antipasti, then rigatoni for him and linguine for me. We’re both drinking water, our palates having been destroyed by the horrible wine at the launch.

We talk about books in general, a conversation I’m always happy to have. He keeps checking his phone, even though it hasn’t pinged once with a notification.

‘I heard back from Laurence earlier,’ he says when our pasta arrives. ‘Now that all the paperwork is in place, he thinks he’ll get the divorce done quickly.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I’m glad we’re being sensible about this,’ he says.

‘What other way is there to be?’

‘You’re one in a million.’ His words are heartfelt.

Then his mobile buzzes.

Chapter 30

Iseult

If you can’t annoy somebody, there is little point in writing.

Kingsley Amis

When I arrive at the hospital, I’m directed to a waiting area. Fifteen minutes later, Steve arrives, pushed in a wheelchair by a porter. His left arm is in a sling and his right wrist is in a support. He has a cast on his leg and a plaster on his cheek. He looks terrible.

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You really are a mess. Have they given you good painkillers? Did you get the details of the car owner?’

‘I’m drugged up to the eyeballs,’ he says. ‘Even so, I ache all over. The Gardaí have my details and the car owner’s details as well as witness statements. I can’t believe it happened. It totally wasn’t my fault.’

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